Signature Required
by Zaedah
Summary: Eventually he would be hers to open. Even if she had to forge a signature. COMPLETE.
1. The Package

**Signature Required**

Paperwork would make delightful bonfire tinder. Wrapping up cases took longer than solving them, Natalie decided as a perfect, full moon night greeted her from outside the lab window. The world was safely tucked away beneath celestial wonders while the team was sequestered inside, losing the benefit of the welcoming weather in favor of recycled air and elevator music. They'd been at this random, shapeshifting disease for several days now and the local administrators had severed Connor's last tolerant nerve. And the man was crafted with precious few to begin with.

Feeling like an unclaimed car at an impound lot, it was her 2 day old hunger that persuaded her limbs to give up the computer-screen vigil. Pending results, ever the watched pot, would not supply data any faster under a bored, starving gaze. Scooping up a few files requiring her supervisor's signature, she headed toward the makeshift command center, knowing her targeted meal partner would ultimately end up there. Indeed, he arrived 7 minutes later, promptly dropping into a chair and laying a hand over his eyes, unaware of hidden company. By now he was surely pondering why he came back. She could only hope he had missed the NIH-sanctioned license to yell, because he'd resorted to harsher volumes more than once today. More than incurable ailments, Connor hated bureaucrats attempting to assert weakly defended jurisdiction over him. She'd long gotten a guilty kick out of watching nameless suits stand down in the face of Stephen's cold stare and verbal fury. Watching from a safe and neutral distance, naturally.

Prior to this case, Connor had taken a post-Colima week off. The absence spanned an eternity and left her feeling slightly abandoned. But his return had been seamless, like the teacher on sick leave who resumed class precisely where it left off. It was welcome and yet, not. Because he seemed no closer to peace than before he left, still so far beyond burn-out for a mere seven days to combat. While nothing had changed outwardly for either of them, Natalie had invested quality time in reordering several facets of her universe. Starting with a boldness that was presently seeking to fail her.

Overcoming the urge to dart under a table until he left the room, she cleared her throat, startling him. Stephen's gaze, snapping up to locate her, was miraculously devoid of annoyance for the first time today. While his features carried that perpetual 'go away,' sign, some tiny glint in the recesses of his eyes evidenced gladness at finding her. It bolstered her courage to speak aloud what had been previously rehearsed in her head.

"You look like hell." Natalie stated, stealing his brand of blunt honesty.

Refusing the bait, Stephen held out his hand. "Those for me?"

As was her tendency lately, a lingering gaze stole to his ringless third finger. Lord preserve her from over-contemplation of impossibilities. Her boss's marital status was as a gift delivered to her, yet addressed to someone else. Occasionally, she'd attempted to peel back a corner of the packing tape, only to find the box clinging to its seal. The deeper content of the gift, his heart, had long been clearly marked: to be opened by addressee only. Divining a plan to rectify the incorrect label had taken time, but little persistent steps were her specialty. Eventually, he would be hers to open. Even if she had to forge a signature. Tonight was about peeling that corner before he had a chance to secure it back in place.

Natalie perched on the edge of the desk, the papers held slightly aloft, just out of his reach. Stephen could easily commandeer them, but that would require moving closer. He seemed to know that, thus remaining in his chair with obvious effort. The patented 'I'm-waiting' glare still inspired shivers, only these days the chills were of a different source.

Summoning a salesman's negotiation smile, Nat said, "These come with a price. Have dinner with me."

Food was meant to sustain, not proposition. Maybe he'd be too tired to notice the suggestive tone employed quite innocently. Mostly. Incredulous was a frequent expression when personal requests were made. But somewhere in the relaxing of his jaw was a hint of near-acceptance. He wanted to agree, but habit bludgeoned hunger to bits most days.

He cast a brief, pained glance to the pile of charts still seeking his attention. "Now?"

Now was simply a no using the 'w' as a guise. Still, Natalie was resolved to meet him refusal for refusal, having spent the bulk of Stephen's vacation storing up reserves of stubbornness to be used against him.

Therefore she pressed, "And not in the hospital."

Those eyes, with their blue borrowed from a cloudless sky, swept over her. Just a touch unveiled. Just a bit unguarded. And very nearly unprofessional. As was his shrugged response;

"Okay."

**(…………)**

One of the perks of their job's traveling requirement was the unexpected locations they were frequently placed into. The hectic, imposing metropolises made her feel connected to the larger world; D.C., New York and Baltimore were so vastly populated that one had little excuse to experience loneliness. But the rural farmlands gave her a sense of being blissfully secluded, not lonely but peacefully aware of self. Unfortunately, touring local sites was hardly on the NIH to-do list. Like any efficient cavalry, their orders were to arrive at the crisis point, save those on the battlefield and withdraw back to home base. No time was left for something as mundane as sightseeing. And never was a souvenir packed alongside their exhaustion on the return trip. Nary a shot glass to offer as evidence that some of her favorite unmapped towns existed.

This case's small town was Rockwell-quaint, a divided square with its main street creatively labeled Main Street. Traditional antique shops, mom and pop joints and hardware stores fought politely with psychics and tattoo parlors for patrons. A lack of neon signs, unusual to city-bred eyes, allowed the night stars their rightful wattage. An all-night diner housed in a postcard-worthy, converted boxcar was chosen both for its walking distance from the hospital and the near absurdity of its charm.

Greeted by an older woman, Rose according to her smock, they requested the non-smoking section. Rose gave them a suggestive once-over, seemingly pegging them for a pair of cheaters rendezvousing in the wee hours. After being shown to a booth in the back, the two doctors proceeded to dissect the menu. The lateness of the hour brought their collective eyes to the breakfast list. Dawn would be nearing soon and the case would make a daylight meal was unlikely. Watching her boss, Natalie hid a smile behind the worn laminated folds of her menu. Connor made such pretense of studying the options before him, but his order would not vary one item beyond the norm; eggs and coffee. Specifically, an omelet with everything and coffee with nothing. It pleased her to know some part of him that well.

Rose, being busy with the front end and clearly too arthritic to maneuver to their distant spot, sent a college-aged girl to service them. Introducing herself as Amethyst, to their barely disguised amusement, the pretty blond read off the overnight specials. She took their orders with a pop of her gum and both eyes firmly entranced on Stephen. Having forgotten to request a drink, Natalie tried to win the waitress's attention as she scribbled down every word Connor said. Natalie failed, mostly because she no longer existed in the midst of the fawning. Nat huffed when the girl shimmied away, making sure Stephen couldn't miss her very physical invitations. And of course, his smirk wasn't missed either. Wadding up a newly torn straw wrapper for the orange juice she wouldn't get, Natalie retrieved his attention with a flick of her wrist. Stephen glanced down to the ball of paper that had bounced off his shoulder before landing on the tabletop.

"If it's a food fight you want…"

"Consider me surrendered, Dr. Connor." Her hands went up in submission. The shirt on her back was the last clean one she'd brought. "Just trying to save poor Amethyst's virtue from the likes of you."

"Meaning?" Leaning on his elbows, he pinned her with a curious gaze and she swallowed hard.

"Meaning," Natalie gave an exaggerated shrug to stall, his gaze equaling a magnifying glass to an ant. Burning from embarrassment from a failed try at flippancy, she struggled to fix the hitch. "Meaning she has no chance so why get her small town hopes up of landing a big city doctor."

He leaned back when his coffee arrived and again, Natalie was deprived the opportunity to point out one drink for two people was bad math. But the interruption and second swaggering swing of waitress hips did not distract him from the subject at hand.

"So you think I'm the 'love them and leave them' type?"

Now noticing the burgundy color to the booth upholstery, Natalie was confident her skin matched its shade. "N-no. I think you're the 'barely have time to shake hands' type." There, that didn't sound so bad.

Seemingly satisfied with the hurried explanation, Stephen looked up at the girl's approach. Set before them was an overflow portion of food and it made her thirsty just to consider the calories involved. Not that she could slake the thirst, being short one drink. And she knew better than to usurp his coffee. Just as Amethyst turned away, Stephen called after her,

"Oh and could we get a large orange juice?" The ever so polite smile worked its magic and the girl rushed off to supply what he requested. Putty in his hands, the gem girl was. As was she because not only had he noticed the oversight, but remedied it.

"You really are a compulsive fixer," she commented once the first mouthful of juice had cleared the throat. She raised the glass in a mock salute to her thirst's savior.

"Just saving your virtue from the likes of Amethyst." His retort was followed by the girl's return, coffee pitcher in hand, to top off the two sips currently missing from his cup. His hand moved to cover the heavy porcelain mug as he assured her he would be fine for some time. Natalie knew the lie of it, all too aware how much coffee the man could put away in record time.

Once left to their own devices for a while, Natalie ventured, "It's the eyes, you know."

Looking momentarily perplexed by the comment, Stephen's cell phone cut off any reply. Flipping open the screen, he rolled said eyes.

"Frank wants to know where we are and what we're bringing back for him."

"Amethyst, if he wants. It'll give you a break from her dedicated attentiveness."

Snapping the phone cover closed, Stephen balanced a portion of egg on his fork and shook his head. "The eyes aren't my fault. My mother was part husky."

Her laugh drew the attention of anyone still awake at the counter, along with the jealous glare of Amethyst. Rose was heard to mumble something about the unfaithfulness of the younger generation. They'd have to return to the hospital soon. But for the duration of one meal, no shop talk occurred. And his signature on the credit card receipt reminded her of the package that Connor was. And she was all the more determined to open him, one relaxed boxcar meal at a time.

**(…………)**

**For those interested, part two will follow. **


	2. Vehicular Hostage

**Signature Required**

Chapter two

God bless the mangled mess that is the airline industry.

Canceling flights due to the scare of nasty weather supplied the means for a little 'them' time. There had never been so many reasons to thank the jerks that seated them on opposite ends of the plane. Flying commercial was rare, but with their usual transport in for refitting they'd had to endure the lack of stocked kitchen and conference/poker table accommodations.

With the conclusion of the case and the weather turning jackal before their eyes, NIH brass had given the okay for the team to stay overnight. A chorus of relieved sighs followed. Even Powell, normally in a rush to get home to his family, vocalized some pleasure at being forced to hang out in the quaintness of town. Rubbing his hands together, he questioned Natalie on the best places to secure souvenirs for patient daughters. Since she and Stephen had wandered away from the hospital last night, he quipped with eyebrow raised. Main Street was the only street, she answered, leaving out any recommendation of the boxcar diner, choosing to think of that as 'their place.'

Barely formulated plans for the evening were thrown asunder by the next phone call. Director Ewing, that paragon of policy, wanted Connor back sooner. All of Natalie's wishful notions for roping him into another away-from-work excursion died with the conclusion of the terse conversation Stephen was having with his nemesis. Frustration didn't cover her emotional state, which was forced down quickly as Eva came to stand beside her. And when Connor turned a moment's attention to the pathologist, she imagined a hint of disappointment in his expression too. Imaginations can't be trusted though, because his orders to the assembled group came in a voice of acceptance rather than displeasure.

The dispersal of the team was amusing. _We've become a limited company_, she mused as Eva and Miles wandered in the same direction as Frank; going out of the Enter Only door to descend upon Nowhere, Tennessee. Shaking her head at the trio of tourists, Natalie looked back to Stephen to find him lost in thought. Stepping closer, her hand rose to steal upon his forearm, contact being a main component in this time of change. As though the touch revealed his mind, she could see the quick calculations going on in his head.

"You're thinking about driving back, aren't you." Hardly a question, the knowledge of how bound to duty the man was made her cringe a bit. The forecast grew more worrisome as other flights joined the cancelled list.

"Nine hours, give or take," he answered by way of mathematical summation.

If planes couldn't fly in the swirling wind that preceded the expected snowfall, what made him think driving was a decent option? The storm was churning across the landscape from the west, following a northeasterly arc that would trail him all the way home. The possibility of it eclipsing him made her decision. The trip shouldn't be undertaken alone, a travel companion the only solution. The package needed an overseer to ensure timely and safe delivery and since everyone else had ventured out for shopping, he would just have to settle for her company. For all nine-odd hours.

**(…………)**

Pacing was no harbinger of good news. The slow back and forth strides indicated the undesirable turn his cell phone conversation had taken. While waiting for their rented SUV to pass its 10-point courtesy inspection, Connor adjourned to a far corner of the empty lobby. This left Natalie the task of initialing an eight page agreement as well as standing sentry over their bags. Hope for a calm, relaxing drive eroded when his signature tension gesture appeared; a hand rising to rub over his left eyebrow. Fragments of sentences were caught only with the most absurd lean of her body, the ridge of the counter being gripped to maintain her spine's Tower of Piza angle. Connor's tone was alternately assuring and pleading. And consistently frustrated.

"…don't control the weather…"

"…everything I can to get there."

The fight ended with the classic, "What do you want me to do?"

A few stabilizing breaths were drawn before Stephen emerged from the darkened corner, having missed Natalie's graceless return to less-comical posture.

"Are we ready?" He asked without sparing her a glance. Tossing the cell phone on the counter as though it was a carrier of pestilence, he tilted his head toward the young man handling desk duty with questionable expediency. Even without a clear view, Natalie knew Connor's gaze was making silent demands of the college-age kid. The evidence lay in the speed with which he departed to fetch their keys.

"They don't move that fast for me," she mumbled in disgust that went unacknowledged by her distracted boss.

Brian, as the lad's nametag identified, returned to verify the completion of the rental agreement before depositing the keys into Connor's waiting hand. Scurrying around the faux-granite counter, Brian personally escorted them to a dark blue Jeep Liberty. As they settled into the vehicle and arranged the seats and temperature gauges, a scattered fall of snowflakes began, like crystalline paratroopers landing on the cold windshield. Just as Connor's hand moved down to shift into drive, his cell phone filled the quiet interior with piercing shrillness. A glance at the screen declared the caller to him a split-second before his expression relayed it to her; on this day, defeated and torn equaled Lisa. Stephen considered the compact technological wonder in his hand as it reached the fifth ring.

"I can't do it." The announcement as followed by the phone landing with a soft thud in the general vicinity of the backseat.

Was it wrong to be pleased with the brush-off? "Daring to hand her over to voicemail?"

"Let her yell at a recording for a while."

The Jeep was thrown into gear with more force than the manufacture might advise. The snow had ceased just moments after it began and armed with coffee, he aimed them toward the road home.

The route North required that they pass the hospital that had consumed the bulk of the week. Once the case was closed, the administrators pulled her aside to make the most generous offer that a small facility could manage in an attempt to keep her there. While paltry compared to her current employer, a swelling of professional pride had surfaced at being recognized and appreciated. Verbal accolades were hard to come by for a behind-the-scenes pathologist. Lab rats see few podiums. Still, the opportunity held no sway on her intended path. The knowledge that Connor's reliance on her, though silent, was certain and unwavering made up for his inability to communicate it. Aside from the stronger, negative emotions, he didn't vocalize much, which she'd long ago gotten used to. The hospital board's disappointment when she declined their offer was tempered by relief at her arrogant supervisor's departure.

Inattentive as she'd been to the scenery passing her window, she perked up at the approach of Main Street in front of them. A few blocks down, the boxcar diner came into view and she watched to see if Stephen might look inside to spot Amethyst. He didn't, but she did. The girl was currently waiting on their team. So much for 'their place.' Moments later, the Tennessee landscape abruptly shifted. Like Dorothy opening her black and white door to reveal a colorful world, the shops gave way to unpaved, unpopulated open land. Untilled plots spanned to the horizon beneath the watchful shadow of the mountains. In a clear, cloudless sky, both sun and moon presided over a flock of unrushed geese. The 'V' formations used to be sharper, she commented to the quiet driver. No reply was forthcoming but the way his jaw clenched and flexed indicated he had something on his mind that he was reluctant to articulate. Watching him bite his lower lip produced a study in rare uncertainty. By the time he was prepared to speak, Natalie had worked herself into a tight worry.

"Do you still talk to your ex-husband?"

And with that, they detoured into the realm of 'left field.' It took a minute for the question to unscramble in her brain. Natalie would have rather debated driving this SUV in the face of global warming than bring up her former spouse. Even a discussion of Amethyst's attributes would have been preferable. And her immediate distaste must have been displayed in her expression because he resumed full attention to merging onto the highway. Cursing her hesitance, Natalie realized that she'd done what Connor did when uncomfortable topics arose; let the silence deem the subject off-limits. He'd made an art of the habit. Determined to change their course at every opportunity, Natalie shifted in her seat to answer. But as the words curled around her tongue, he cut her off.

"It's not my business," he stated in a way that was meant to represent an apology.

Mouth and throat engaged as his speed topped 80 mph. "Chris and I were an embarrassment to the marital institution."

"How so?" An amused curiosity lit his face, a look she catalogued in order to mentally reproduce later.

Inexplicably warming to the subject, Natalie fought to ignore the speedometer's needle heading clockwise. "Smart girl gets taken in by dumb guy."

He visibly struggled with her assessment of their relationship. "I can't see you with a…dumb guy."

Fighting a vicious blush at the off-handed compliment, she soldiered on. "Turns out, he made a dumber criminal. Check fraud, using false names, disability insurance scams. And then the ultimate in irrationality had him impulsively stealing a donation jar for kids with leukemia. The security video made the local news and I turned in the unmasked low-life for all of the above. Haven't seen him since"

Changing lanes to pass several long-haul semis without signaling, Stephen digested this history while Natalie waited for whatever came next.

"No procreation then?"

The simple question opened the vault to the issue on his mind. There was no doubt he didn't regret Jack's birth. But with a child between them, he could never make a clean break from his ex-wife. Hence the phone calls that invariably escalated into wireless fights. Natalie had no such compulsion, having no idea nor interest in Chris's whereabouts.

"I'd have done time for participating in the passing on of that man's genes."

The grin that produced was worth the painful detailing of her humiliating spousal choice. Blaming the naiveté and folly of age hadn't made her feel better all these years. But Stephen's smile did wonders. All too soon, it faded as he glanced behind them to the cell phone laying face-down and abandoned on the back floor panel.

"I should check that," he muttered with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

"Just blame Tennessee's No Phone While Driving law." She shrugged. Maybe a bit of Chris had rubbed off on her after all.

Another lane switch minus the signal at an increasingly frightening speed. Surely Tennessee had a law against that. "How do you know they have one?" He asked doubtfully.

"I don't." Being a co-conspirator might be fun. "And I bet she doesn't either."

That sonnet-inspiring grin was back, this time engulfing his eyes as well. "Remind me to keep you two apart."

It was easy to read too much into that comment. In those mere seven words resided a shade of promise usually reserved for her personal fantasyland. If Natalie had no hope of being more than a co-worker, Stephen would have no reason to be concerned with a chance meeting. A stretch, granted, but one the normally realistic woman was glad to endure.

Though the letters moved into an incorrect order, the first name on the package's label inched closer to her own. She couldn't sign for it yet, but nine hours was an awfully long time with a vehicular hostage.


	3. Satanic Radio

For Syd, who so graciously lent me her rapid updating skills for the week. I'll no doubt be returning it soon.**  
**

**Signature Required**

Chapter Three

The local radio stations were being DJ'ed by minions from hell. Served her right for failing to specify a satellite radio upgrade to the rental company. Having flown down, there'd been no reason to bring her own CD's on this trip, an oversight she meant to correct for any future journeys. The peaks and valleys of Tennessee's picturesque mountains played havoc with the signal, so Natalie had been assigned channel surfing duties. Not that Connor had asked, but the driver's barely restrained groan immediately chased each revival of static. Plus, she preferred for his concentration to remain road-bound since their traveling speed suggested he intended to outrun the impending storm.

Natalie wouldn't put it past him to try. That he couldn't intimidate time and space into compliance likely irritated him to no end. A feeling which was now replicated in her as she switched from dreadful bluegrass twanging to some sort of techno opera. But the problem, in her opinion, was not the sporadic frequency. Rather, it was the song selections.

Heart, a normally harmless band, was the beginning of the audible downward spiral. Unable to maintain the same lyric-detachment that Connor was displaying, Natalie squirmed as Ann Wilson sang, 'How do I get you alone?' This dubious tune was followed by The Human League's timeless question, 'Don't you want me, baby?' When a woman declared, 'I wanna take my clothes off,' the songwriter who hadn't taken pity on Nat's claustrophobic discomfort was thoroughly cursed to all seven rings of hell.

And what demon-spawn possessed her eyes to dart so obviously to the left? The first hint of fuzzy reception provided the excuse to press Seek on the radio face, the hurried jab of her finger nearly wounding the helpless plastic button.

A blessed commercial gave answer to her prayer for mercy, one that Connor was not pleased with. The return of his attention put her on notice. Having logged a great many miles in a car with him, she was well aware that he'd rather listen to a valley girl recite the alphabet than sit through an advertisement. But since sinister forces contented themselves to act as an enemy to the blushing meek, her finger stilled for fear of being treated to something worse. Thus they were subjected to the longest car dealer drabble ever recorded. The station then identified its call letters as WROX, giving the impression that romantic warbles would be excluded. Indeed they were, as familiar opening strands widened her eyes. 'Closer' from Nine Inch Nails. Stabbing the button again to land on a moody baroque channel, her sudden hatred for heavy metal was proclaimed by way of explanation.

But by his grin, he knew the lyrics she'd been desperate to avoid; 'I wanna !& you like an animal,' indeed.

A porn star couldn't have invented such a charged playlist and her reddening cheeks seemed to agree. Who was this demented cupid and what in Heaven's name was he planning next? Even the immunity of classical music was suspect, expecting as she was an orchestral 'Love shack.' Or perhaps symphonic 'I want your sex.' Had Powell been the driver, she'd have hummed along without thought of impropriety. If Miles sat beside her, she'd have belted the words out just to get a reaction. But she didn't want them.

Daring to peer at Connor, the signs of amusement furthered her embarrassment, sinking her deeper into the plush bucket seat. Falling back on the oldest possible safe topic, the weather, Natalie pointed out the growing darkness stalking them from behind. Above the rear view mirror, an LED screen documented the moment by moment drop in temperature.

Suddenly, there seemed nothing safe about the weather.

**(…………)**

Three hours into the journey and it was clear the race against Mother Nature had been lost. The snow, having sprinted ahead, now left its entrails in rapidly collecting heaps on the highway. The windshield wipers scraped across the ice-caked glass, shrieking a repetitive protest against their current working environment. Tires also chastised the driver for asking them to continue pushing through the ruts of packed snow in their lane. The pull on the steering wheel was random and frequent. No matter how strong they may be, his arms would be sore later. Still, an appreciation was building for the environment-killing SUV and its all-wheel traction. Natalie typically refused to drive her little compact car more than five miles in similar weather. But, along with his vehicle choice, Connor's advantage lay in his New England upbringing. That and irreparable stubbornness. Although present conditions had finally forced him to adhere to something resembling the posted speed limit.

Any attempt at finding non-suggestive music was abandoned in favor of an all-news AM station. Exiting Tennessee and its beautiful, static-inducing mountains allowed for clear reception of weather and traffic updates. His cell phone had been freed from its time-out and now sat in a spare cup holder. Frank had checked in to make sure they weren't freezing solid in a ditch. Miraculously, Lisa had stopped calling 40 miles ago, though Director Ewing dialed Stephen on a rigid half hour schedule.

Glancing at the dashboard clock, Natalie began the silent countdown, then pointed a dramatic finger at the phone, "Aaand…Cue Kate."

The first ring promised a new career as a psychic. Stephen waited for the fourth ring before answering without preamble.

"It's still snowing. We're still heading North. And this will still be my answer thirty minutes from now."

The flip top was snapped shut and Natalie rescued it from his clenching grip.

"I think she misses you." Striving to elevate his deteriorating mood only netted the reverse. His hands tightened on the wheel.

"I wasn't gone nearly long enough."

They both knew he wasn't referring to the last case. Stopping just short of fulfilling the urge to touch his arm, her sympathy was granted free reign to spill into her voice.

"Time away didn't fix things with Lisa, did it?"

"Wasn't supposed to."

The clipped answer encompassed all he was willing to say on the matter. As if to prove the continued post-marital strife, the phone rang again and the display read 'Jack.' To the device's possible peril, it was returned to Connor's hand.

"Slick," he allowed a grudging admiration to his ex's tactics to cover any anger. Gesturing for her to take back the phone, he sighed. "She's all yours."

The prospect of making verbal contact with the ex-wife of the boss she was so severely attracted to should have nothing good to recommend it. But slipping back into co-conspirator mode was surprisingly effortless. A rarely utilized, sickly sweet voice was dredging up from the depths as he answer button was pressed.

"Dr. Connor's line. Dr. Durant speaking."

"_I'm trying to reach my errant husband." _The admittedly seductive voice of the former Mrs. Connor had placed heavy emphasis on that last word.

"I do apologize that Dr. Connor is indisposed at present. I'd be happy to take a message." Oh so very happy.

For his part, Stephen appeared torn between laughter and protest at Natalie word choices. If Nat wasn't careful, he'd demote her to receptionist.

"_Can I assume he's driving the car you're riding in?" _A harder edge crept into the disembodied voice on the line.

"Yes, Ma'am. And road conditions call for his total focus. I'm sure you understand." A snort came from the driver.

The silence was brief and entirely too weighted to end well. _"Tell him,"_ a sigh bit off the initial version of the message. _"Tell him to be careful."_

This new, softer tone evidenced the remnant of affection, Natalie concluded as she disconnected. Affection for the man who's time Natalie was gladly monopolizing.

"She still calls you her husband." The information was divulged almost shyly. It seemed important to note, even though it cast a kinder light on Lisa.

"And yet the divorce was her choice." Obviously Stephen wasn't quite ready to hold the woman up to benevolent illumination.

Never one to waste an opportunity, Natalie was loathe to release him from the burgeoning conversation. "How did Jack react to the divorce?"

Shaking his head either meant the question would be answered painfully or not at all. "He said," hesitance stopped the sentence dead just as the road's undercoat of ice asserted itself. After reestablishing the vehicle in its lane, Connor started again. "I didn't know how to…I put it off as long as possible. But he said it was okay. He'd be just like all of his friends. Everything I'd sworn not to do to that kid, I've done."

The self-aimed toxin of his tone was as biting as the wind chill outside the windows. No amount of placating assurances would solve that. Instead, she let him have the moment to salvage some form of inner calm, scolding herself for bringing it up to satiate her own curiosity. The darkening night sky was strangely lit by the whiteness of the landscape. Scenery was given her attention for a few minutes; regardless of the hazard it created on the road, the fresh snowfall made postcard vistas of the fields.

Whatever Stephen did to quiet the sudden flare of bitterness clearly worked because when he looked at her, all malice was gone.

"You'd like him, you know." Every syllable was spoken with a pride reserved for fathers.

The wattage of her resulting smile could have effectively melted the snow around them. "So when do you plan to make introductions?" That was pushing the forwardness boundary, but something in the urgency of the storm inspired boldness.

"We make it home in one piece, it's as good as done."

It wasn't difficult to place faith in the eventuality of such a prospect. Connor was nothing if not a man of his word. Persistence, that most effective weapon against his bouts of reluctance, would still be kept at the ready to ensure this new portal into his personal universe stayed open. That package, the one she'd been holding onto despite it being addressed to another, was beginning to settle more comfortably into her grasp. The burden of being legally bound to pass it on unless she could produce the proper signature was lifting little by little. Should there be some facsimile of a date involved, another corner of tape would be peeled back from the box, the contents already beckoning her to peek inside.

After that, how far off could the acceptance of her signature be?


	4. Ceiling Tiles

_This chapter goes out to Gnome and Syd. You guys deserve some near-shippiness and we're getting there...Promise!  
_

**Signature Required**

Chapter Four

208 ceiling tiles. Twelve inch, textured white squares, flawlessly aligned and the sum of the evening's company. 208 ceiling tiles, which were numbered one by one rather than multiplying the horizontal columns by the vertical rows. At the unfortunate hour of 1 am, time consumption was sadly the goal. Having completed the counting task, a new venture was undertaken; recounting them backwards. 208 ceiling tiles and not a thing on television. Except the cable-less snow pattern. And wasn't there enough of the real thing outside?

Clouds, like drifting dump trucks, were unloading their contents on the shoulders of the human population below. A set of travelers perilously trekking north was summarily parked by the highway patrol against the protests of the hotheaded driver. The officer's pickup, hastily equipped with a dented plow, led the Jeep Liberty off the nearest exit. A motel, barely visible behind the snow drifts, provided the pair with its last two rooms until the worst of the storm passed. And the accommodations were on opposite ends of the long, one story building.

Weighed down and sluggish in the extremes of draining inactivity, Natalie felt like a kid kept indoors by a passing shower. Looking out the window was pointless, as the stiff winds had caked the glass with a wintry mix. She'd already secured a personal knowledge of tiles and next set about altering all the entries in her cell phone's phonebook. Each member of her family, as well as the team, received a code name. Having finished this, Natalie then imagined what name each person would provide her. For some inexplicable reason, she kept coming up with Gumby.

Typically, when lodging with the team Natalie's room was always suspiciously next to Connor's. It was never discussed nor planned, not that she could prove. But the hand of Powell, now nicknamed 'Teddy Bear,' was in the arrangements, that much was certain. Still, there had never been an occasion where the convenient proximity was put to use. Tonight, the constraints of professionalism would have surely been tested had there been an adjoining door between them. Instead, there were a good twenty rooms between them. Not to mention the 5 feet of snow she'd have to climb through to get to him. Along with a good book, she'd left the dog sled team at home.

Despite the present state of insidiously boredom, Natalie had been glad to see the red and blue lights behind them. The snow had gotten treacherous once the storm began throwing ice into the earthbound drops. In college, a student had been killed a mile from campus during a heavy winter storm. Natalie and several friends had huddled together to play poker by candlelight and Tiffany had been chosen to attempt a convenience store run, having the only four wheel drive car amongst the group. Rather than reminding the impressionable junior of the dangers or volunteering to go with her, Natalie had merely put in a request for a rebellious pack of cigarettes. Why she'd felt compelled to mention that item to the police two hours later she couldn't say. Her guilt was dutifully submitted with the accident report. It was evidence that smoking kills and never again did a cigarette touch her lips.

The next recount of the ceiling tiles, this time in butchered French, was blessedly interrupted by a call. Her cell screen displayed 'GucciGirl' and she smiled. This renaming thing worked wonders on her sinking mood and she answered without proper greeting.

"You should be nominated for angelhood. Tell me you're having more fun that me."

"_I was until two hours ago." _Eva didn't sound terribly upset by the hassle._ "The airports' closing gave this trip a nice vacation vibe. But now the stores are closed too. Got some nifty souvenirs before they kicked us out though."_

Natalie let her body collapse onto the strictly utilitarian mattress and sighed. "We're stuck at a motel until the roads clear. So what entertainment have you three found?"

Eva's soft chuckle crackled a bit over the line, suggesting less than ideal reception for girl-chat. _"Frank voted for Truth or Dare, but Miles nearly had a coronary. Poor guy goes so red, it's almost unfair. So we're holed up in my room watching infomercials."_

On cue, Powell's sharp laughter echoed over the static while Miles was heard refuting the medical benefit claims of an apparently overpriced and under-tested product.

"_Our boy wonder was actually yelling at the screen about quack physicians with their paid testimonials. The only way to calm him down was to threaten him with the old 'Don't make me call Connor, young man!' Ah, how quickly they grow, and yet…not."_

"And how quickly they turn cynical. Maybe Connor's finally rubbing off on him." This would be unfortunate, since McCabe couldn't wear contemptuous nearly as well as Stephen. Still, Nat would have to reconsider Miles new 'Green Bean' moniker, since, though permanently skinny, he was showing himself less green by the minute.

"_Speaking of, how's our intrepid leader dealing with the delay?"_

"If the precinct hadn't been buried in snow, he'd have been arrested."

When faced with a displeased and inconvenienced Connor, the officer's expression was a Kodak moment if ever one existed. The 5'8'' lawman had clutched desperately to his authority while the 6 foot intimidating doctor stared him down. Mother Nature and her blinding winds had made a stronger case that eventually forced Stephen to relent. Not that he did so lightly. In finding the motel had more than one room available, her initial disappointment was tempered by a better wisdom. He'd be in no mood for unexpected advances tonight, especially after having to explain the setback to both Kate and Lisa. It remained a surprise that she couldn't hear the phone fight through the twenty walls that separated them.

Once the storm stole the connection to Eva, Natalie's prone position forced her vision to the tiles again. Closing her eyes, a deep breathing exercise was employed for several moments in hopes of becoming drowsy, giving sole focus to lung movement. But it was difficult to craft serenity from within while outwardly lying on a quilt that would give Picasso nightmares. Garish didn't cover the covers. And now she was talking in puns.

Rescue came in the muffled sound of rhythmic thudding outside her door. A squint out of the foggy peephole uncovered an employee attempting to move mountains with a plastic shovel. By all accounts the snow was winning, but the man refused to bow to the daunting task. At least, she presumed it was a man, though under the eleven layers of clothes, the shoveller looked as wide as he was tall. As if responding to every wordless encouragement she sent through the heavy door, the man's spine stiffened to attack the mounds with renewed purpose. Likely the frigid winds, which sent a flurry of moisture upward with stroke of the shovel, had more to do with the new hurry. Pitying his discomfort, Natalie couldn't regret the resulting progress. A less-than-Everest hike was all she needed.

With choices limited, the option to watch the work from the tiptoed position of the peephole won over resuming counting endeavors. Not that it had been decided what action might be taken once a path had been established between the rooms. Instinct would have her knocking on Connor's door, but at 2:30 am, it was conceivable the man had actually gone to sleep. The long and difficult drive certainly earned him some rest. Except that she knew the man, perhaps better than he realized. He'd be surprised to learn that the physician in her had catalogued his pattern of sleeping pill reliance; Ambian CR, she suspected. These were not brought on a case and were solely for home use. Much of this was gleaned from evidence of withdrawal symptoms during the first day or so of a case. The most prominent was "rebound insomnia," a common drawback which leads to having more trouble sleeping the first few nights after stopping the medication. Stephen would have none to take tonight, for instance and would therefore be awake.

But certainly not keeping a pitiful eye on the shoveling as she was.

When her phone rang again, she startled and jumped away from the door. Not even bothering to check the call ID, Natalie breathed a quick greeting and smiled at the voice on the other end.

"I had a feeling you'd be up," Stephen informed her. "I'm conferring on a case by phone. You want in on this?

"You'd better believe it." Not caring how boredom-relieved that sounded, Natalie grabbed her coat and trudged out along the roughly defined path. A brilliant smile was granted to the employee, who gave a frozen wave in return.

Of course, she'd had to forcefully reign in the near-giggle throughout their brief phone conversation. The screen had announced his call with his new name, 'The Package.'


	5. Mousetrap Devise

**Signature Required**

Chapter Five

The small pinstriped plane powered effortlessly above the bright, pulled-cotton-ball clouds as its nose pointed northeast. From the air, white sheets of winter-coated earth gave little perception of distance or progress. The noisy little Cessna, which the elderly pilot identified as a 208A Caravan 675, gracefully soared even as its female passenger sank. There was supposed to be a road trip, emphasis on _road_, complete with suggestive songs and unprofessional conversation. What happened to their 4-5 hours of 'alone' time?

Apparently while Natalie had been busy taking a tile-population census, Connor had dug into another team's case and simultaneously secured this flight home. Damn his multitasking hide.

Initially, the part of her that nursed this newly recognized crush had seen his late night invitation as his version of an excuse. After all, the man didn't actually need her pathological wisdom on this case. The symptoms of fever, headache, stiffness, nausea, abdominal pain and diarrhea, coupled with the evidence of the pregnant women's common birthing class schedule, suggested a food poisoning involving a shared container of half-and-half. At 4 am, they'd decided on a Listeriosis diagnosis and the final call was placed to the head of the secondary unit. In the two hours leading up to this conclusion, Natalie had committed equal time to the case and finding a plausible reason to remain in his room.

Until he'd dismissed her.

Because, he'd nonchalantly explained, they had a 7:30 am flight. In the minute it had taken her brain to tell her mouth to close, Stephen had registered her expression as one lacking expected enthusiasm. Clearly, he believed any competent person would exude relief at being spared the car ride. Assuring him that the late hour had merely caught up with her, Natalie trudged along the nearly spotless path back to her room. Foregoing the wave to the victorious shoveller, who in turn looked as crestfallen as she felt, Natalie had cursed every one of the 208 tiles by name.

The vibrating whine of the single engine rendered communication impossible. Which was probably for the best. Connor was finishing the rough report for their part in the Listeriosis case. Meanwhile, Natalie made the grievous mistake of considering how thrilled Kate and Lisa would be at their expedited travel arrangement. The balance of the flight was given over to violent imaginings of their creatively constructed demise.

By the time the plane touched the ground, the blue ribbon had been awarded to the mousetrap-like devise. It was simple, really; gravity caused the bowling ball to fall upon a seesawed plank, where the hot iron waited to slide off. The appliance landed on a piece of plexiglass, which slowly melted into… The door swinging open to shake Natalie from the blueprints and she climbed over the empty seat beside her, bag in tow. The brisk wind gave a harsh greeting as it fairly sandblasted all exposed skin. Bracing against the doorframe, her eyes snapped shut to prevent retinal damage from flying snow-grit. The hurricane-worthy gusts must have pushed the moisture-bearing clouds along at a good clip. The mere dusting of snow indicated the storm hadn't been permitted to linger.

A hand slid around hers, the gentle tug opening her eyes. Connor reached his free hand past her to snag her overnight bag. As he led her down the tri-folding steps, her grip tightened on his warm fingers. That hand remained her prisoner as they carefully tread across the small airstrip, through the tiny terminal and straight to the Hertz counter. Despite only facing an hour drive, Stephen requested satellite radio. Natalie couldn't contain the giggle, though the effort lent the sound only a fractional muffling.

And for the first time since she'd known him, the Package winked. At her. Teasingly.

It was clear, as clear as his eyes in sunlight. He hadn't been oblivious to those evil songs. The invitation to his room was indeed an excuse. And he would most certainly keep his word and introduce her to Jack. She gave his shoulder a playful nudge, so foreign an act that she nearly repeated it for practice. And it left her wondering how exactly he would introduce her; coworker, friend, beyond? Should he chose some variation of the latter, she would take up her pen and assume the signature-writing position.

**(…………)**

The 75 minute ride to NIH was strikingly different from the storm chasing journey. Opting for the Ford Explorer, the pair met clear roads with little evidence of the storm that forced them off the trail the day before. Icicles hanging precariously from leafless trees showed signs of more rain than snow in this region, giving hope of a safe albeit short trip.

The radio was set to an 80's one-hit-wonder station, causing a discussion of what they were doing when each song was new. That was followed by a rather brave refresher of his earlier promise. Natalie leaned unnecessarily close, hovering just over the center console and asked about Jack. Explaining that she wanted to have a ready list of topics 'when' they met, Natalie quizzed Stephen on his son's favorite movie, music, sport and any other age-appropriate interest the boy might have. Connor answered each new inquiry without hesitation, showing that he was not the distant, unaware father he seemed to consider himself. When she vocalized that point, his face lit in genuine appreciation.

An hour of no arguments, no disagreements and no uncomfortable silences would indicate a turning point had been reached. When or how defied specific definition. Not that it mattered, as the relational road signs displayed that a curve had been successfully navigated somewhere in the past day. Her mental GPS didn't particularly care where they stood, because it was certainly closer than their established proximity had been prior to the meal at the boxcar diner.

Arriving at NIH shifted the air around them in almost expected proportion. Walking through the parking garage, her posture was straighter, more tense. Because here was the arena of professionalism, the WMD to the strides she was seeking. And the terrorist in Prada waited at the side door, armed and ready for battle while wearing the suicide bomb of a smile.

"I was counting the minutes," Director Ewing let the sarcasm take over what was likely a true enough statement.

Natalie leaned close to Connor and whispered, "Do you think she can count that high?"

That earned a small grin that quickly receded. "We should have stayed in Tennessee," he lamented as they slowly approached the inpatient woman.

As Kate tapped her torture-devise stiletto heel on the tile floor, Nat nodded her head. "We should be watching the team annoy Amethyst and giving nosy Rose something to really gripe about."

By way of agreement, Stephen cleared his throat, an elbow finding her side in either conspiracy or warning to behave.

The director requisitioned him the moment they were inside, the warmth of nearly tropical recycled air in no way reflected in Kate's demeanor. The two immediately disappeared from view, but not before Connor flashed Natalie a look that pleaded for rescue. Meanwhile, Natalie stood in the empty hall, debating the prudence of inhabiting his office until he reemerged or escaping home, where her underused bed waited. Compromise came in the form of the lounge chair kept discreetly in the corner of his currently tidy office. Sleep could be achieved while being accessible upon his return.

Never let it be said, she mused as she settled into the cushy fabric, that a signer wasn't available to receive the package upon delivery.

In dreams, the small plane flew over floating ceiling tiles. From the window, the view of earth showed a boxcar diner with a jealous waitress and a smiling team. The flight path placed the landing strip at the end of an exit, motel staff with shovels welcoming them back. Though snow covered every square inch up to the average waist, it was humid. A hand tugged her inside, the hand attached to a strong arm connected to a broad shoulder below a handsome face. And eyes the shade of…

That hand was indeed upon her, only it grasped her shoulder, which was shaken lightly below her sleepy face. Blinking rapidly, that handsome face came into focus on the plane of reality. The world had been ticking toward lunch when she'd curled up in his chair, but the clock on the wall declared dinner was next in line.

And she could never be too tired to decline the invitation he'd just extended. Departing the building with haste before Kate changed her mind, the two climbed into the rented Explorer. Like kids escaping the headmaster, there was an almost festive atmosphere during the short drive, which carried them through the busy streets of 5 pm traffic and into the parking lot of the nearest diner.


	6. Domino Effect

**Signature Required**

Chapter Six

Defeat wore a bathrobe; frayed and worn as the owner's nerves.

The early hours of Saturday were passed in the company of the Tasmanian Devil, both body and feet bearing the open-mouthed expression of cartoon absurdity. The grown woman in Looney Toon sleeping garb moved aimlessly through the ground floor apartment, never far from the front-facing windows. The view displayed in icy degrees the chill coating the quiet neighborhood. Just beyond the parking lot, where her car sat in lonely salt-splattered isolation, lay a frozen canal. The narrow waterway was currently devoid of springtime duck couples. Many summer mornings involved watching their babies grow from downy puffballs to playful ducklings. The hobby brought with it an occasional envy of the family cycle. In the absence of feathered friends, Natalie concentrated her unused weekend energy on finding something, anything, to accomplish. Besides chores. Or work. Or thinking about him.

The obvious difficulty with the latter was compounded by the involuntary glances to the windows. During last night's meal, there had been various hints of her lack of expected activity today. Yet the parking lot remained free of his car. Not that Connor was the type to make unannounced personal appearances. More likely, he would call first, which explained her present anger with the silent telephone.

It had seemed, at the diner, that the corner of sealing tape she'd peeled back recently had stayed detached from the package, giving her something to grasp in her effort to open the box. Her signature was on the verge of being authenticated as adequate, leaving only the exposure of the contents as the far-reaching goal. Natalie had intended to take hold of that tape firmly and pull it permanently out of the way. It now occurred to her, sitting alone in her apartment with only analogies to keep her occupied, that there might be more than one layer of tape. And it was likely that the grade quality of adhesive increased as she went along. It was hard for him to call when he was so locked within the box's confines.

The Tasmanian Devil faces on her slippers looked increasingly disgruntled with the purposeless wandering and she considered strapping on a pedometer to track the unnecessary steps she'd forced the stuffed character to take. Muttering an apology to her battered footwear, it was decided to at least endure the pointless day off properly dressed. But not without one last look to the still-empty space outside.

By 2 pm, the day's three rules had been broken in a seamless domino effect; the coffee table was freed from its clutter in order to lay out and read new work-related medical journals which led to thinking about him. A particularly juicy fantasy had been nursed over the last two days and it was given consent to occupy her under-stimulated mind. Being immersed in the daydream instantly improved the mood of the day, if not the prospects.

So naturally an interruption was mandatory.

The light knock on the door cut off the imaginary seduction just before his imaginary hands…another knock and in her rush to the door the low table caught her shin most defiantly. Limping to the peephole, the cursory glance brought neither face nor body to her eye. The lack of a knocker set her leg to a further throbbing. It was her physician's opinion that bruises without purpose hurt more intensely. The questioning of her sanity began when the spectral knocking restarted, the sound vibrating at hip level rather than at the typical height at which most visitors might raise their fists. A second gaze, shooting downward, revealed the top of a baseball-capped head. A head attached to an awfully short body. Perplexity eased as the door was swung open to the unfamiliar, clean-cut boy.

"Um…Hi." The saccharine voice greeted, a touch shy behind the hopeful smile. Were the Boy Scouts entering the cookie selling business now?

"What can I do for you?" She fixed her sweetest voice to mask her disappointment. While he was beyond cute, this was not the visitor she'd been pining for all day.

"You can come to my game." The suggestion was delivered in such a way as to negate rejection. A recognizable skill, she realized, which identified the lad before her.

"Nice to finally meet you, Jack." Natalie leaned down a bit to better address the boy. "Did you father put you up to this?"

There was an immediate brightening of Jack Connor's already cheerful countenance at the mention of his father. "Dad said you wouldn't say no to a kid." Raised eyebrows indicated a desire for verification.

Her own confirmation came with a glance right, then left, where a black SUV waited, its platinum blond driver grinning behind the wheel. Such a handsome pair should never be refused.

"He was right," she informed the eager 11 year old.

Thanking whatever impulse prompted her to dress, a coat was donned swiftly and they headed for the truck. The most tempting smile graced the driver, who'd emerged from the truck to stand on the curb, holding the passenger side door open. They could have been headed to a tiger mauling and she would have been too distracted by the company to object.

**(…………)**

The game to which Jack referred was football, a sport he seemed far too small to physically endure. Wasn't there an inordinate amount of tackling? Was a mere helmet enough to cushion brain-scrambling impacts? Apparently, Dr. Connor was more than willing to trust whatever abilities his son possessed at this young age, content on this Saturday to just be 'dad.' It was an attractive transition, one she was delighted to witness. The relaxed drive contained a charming question-and-answer session between her and Jack. Football and baseball were his main interests, but he also liked to read by flashlight well past his bedtime. He'd donated all of his stuffed animals to the Salvation Army, being too old for them. And he liked a girl in his math class who, despite not being the prettiest, told great jokes. This lack of superficial interest clearly pleased his father.

Exiting the heated truck, a blast of crisp air surged into her lungs, driving all warmth from her body. Damp grass, a reminder of the storm, wore white painted lines unevenly faded by previous games. Sidelines were populated by boys of varying sizes and parents of varying temperaments. Jack, a thin kid of compact movement, tugged his jersey down over his plastic-and-foam pads and joined the bigger members of his team. Natalie pondered the usefulness of praying for magical properties to inhabit his gear, as the school-provided protective vest appeared insufficient to keep her new friend from being crushed. As if reading these concerns, Stephen's arm draped across her shoulders, steering her toward the bleachers.

"Just watch," he said, both a command and an assurance.

"He's gonna get creamed." The mumbled thought earned her a sideways glance, the 'don't you trust me' expression of her companion effectively shutting her up. Biting her tongue, she attempted to 'just watch.'

On the way to the game, the trio had discussed Natalie's overall understanding of football and the men declared it rather sad. Jack explained his position with the same precision with which he could detail Harry Potter's plot, though he announced that his quarterbacking days were temporary. Two growth spurts from now, he intended to switch to defense, just like his dad. Connor's wince at his son's strategy was not missed. Offense, Stephen had told him, got the money and recognition while defense got the injuries. It was clear from the boy's lack of deflation at the prospect that he'd already built an immunity to this information. Stephen's collegiate career, she learned, had been derailed senior year with a 'blown out knee.' The less than technical description of the injury, for his son's benefit, had made her cringe all the same. Offense suddenly looked like the only sane option.

Apparently, enchanted pads weren't required with six bulky youths forming a barrier from equally hulking opponents. Most of the time. The small quarterback's quick throws helped turn the defense away from their goal of pancaking him. Still, being a skilled doctor stole any hope of impartiality while watching the peewee game. Even at this amateur level, every hit came gift-wrapped with the unnerving medical knowledge of all that could go wrong. How Connor switched off that clinical part of his brain remained a mystery, though she supposed it was the same mechanism that often expunged his emotions when dealing with patients.

By the end of the first half, her toes had lost all feeling. But she'd gain a general understanding of the actions from her vantage point on the frozen metal bleachers. Not that her location was a source of complaint. She and Stephen sat closer than they would at, say, an NIH conference. Or absolutely anywhere they could be seen by the team. Freedom to cohabitate a smaller personal space was a byproduct of non-work related outings, a benefit that factored largely in her plan. That he'd taken the initiative to show up without a specific agreement, thus indicating interest, brought her goal a step closer to completion. The next phase was up to her devising, as the right moment was needed to secure an extension of this day. Preferably without an adolescent chaperone.

A successful conclusion of the football game consisted of a victory and a lack of broken bones. Both were achieved and the happy boy ran to meet them on the sidelines. The excited voice issued forth a million questions of what they saw and how they liked this play and that score. A slow walk back to the truck evidenced an unwillingness to rush away from the field and end the excursion. But Jack was expected home and Connor wanted desperately to avoid the requisite argument should he be late. The interior heat was fairly blasted as they pulled away from the unpaved parking lot, bringing a sigh from the unpadded lad.

"Everything okay, Jack?" Natalie turned in her seat to catch the rolling of bright eyes.

The shrug didn't match his previously exuberant gestures. "I just," he trailed off until he caught his father's eyes in the mirror. Taken as a sign to proceed with truth, Jack cleared his throat and addressed her. "I'd rather stay with my dad. But mom's got a date."

The last word was spoken with groaned effort, either from general boyish dislike of the practice or the specific suitor. Natalie considered asking, but snatched the words from her tongue before they could get her in trouble. Fortunately, Jack grew eager to discuss the matter without prompting.

"It's, like, date number two and the guy's," another shrug. "I guess he's okay, except he's too old and small and poor. I know 'cuz I heard mom tell Aunt Beth that she had to pay last time."

After a quiet chuckle, Stephen's expression took on the appropriate remorse for finding the situation amusing. Still, some trace of the smirk hovered at the corners of his mouth, which forced Nat to clamp down on her own smile. Jack failed to notice the struggle of the adults to refrain from mocking the woman and he carried on with his tale of woe.

"Plus, every time she comes home after a date with anyone, she gets all weird."

"Weird?" Natalie parroted, curiosity trampling her earlier resolve not to inquire.

Jack leaned back in his seat with the air of the immensely put-upon. "It's not fair. Just because she has a bad night, I gotta deal with it. She, like, tells me how bad it went and then calls grandma and says it was perfect. Then she says I shouldn't lie?" He slumped further. "Grown ups are confusing."

More like confused, she mused. Stephen wisely shook his head, but said nothing. Not badmouthing each other, he'd explained before, was the cornerstone of their amicable split. Which didn't mean he couldn't be pleased by her difficulty in replacing him. Natalie, for her part, couldn't be happier. In a twisted form of 'stranger-loathing,' the normally compassionate doctor wished nothing but bad dates for the woman who let the man beside her go. Though she was equally grateful for that fortuitous turn of events.

Paying a moment's attention to their surroundings, Natalie realized that they were driving in the wrong direction to be heading to her house. Their current traveling path meant Jack was being dropped off first. So much for her making the next move, as Stephen's decision of their order of departure was something of a step in itself. Funny how he was claiming pieces of her plan without knowing one even existed. Could they actually be ready for a stab at a relationship at the same time?

Jack's residence, when they arrived, did little for her aesthetic eye. A massive, completely square, entirely bricked building shouted upscale dental office rather than home. Her brow creased in distaste, missing Jack's scramble out of the backseat. Once outside, the boy stood at her window waiting for the glass to be rolled down. Bracing for the intrusion of cold air, Natalie obliged.

"Thanks for coming to my game. And um, if you like my dad, it's cool." He spun on his heel and raced up the drive, presumably before his mother began yelling for him.

In open-mouthed shock, Natalie slowly turned forward in her seat, keeping wide eyes glued to the dashboard. She could feel his eyes on her, but refused her gaze the visual confirmation of his expression. It took a moment to realize the window remained down, the brisk breeze working to cool her heated face.

"Not sure you needed his permission," Stephen mused to himself as he rolled up the window from the driver's door panel and pulled the truck away from the curb. The petrification that froze her limbs into immobility was lost on him, his tone failing to share her embarrassment.

Not until they reached the highway had she recovered enough to try out her newly re-inflated lungs. "So, is he always so… forthcoming?"

"That was him taking it easy on you. Precocious doesn't quite cover it."

There was no doubt where the kid got his verbal boldness. Perhaps she could borrow a stitch of it now? Stephen had already usurped her next move, so being two behind required a bit of catch-up. Plus she was hungry. Absently eyeing the condominiums currently filling the scenery with their cookie-cutter designs, Natalie put an extended sigh into her next comment.

"You promised to make introductions, you know. But Jack actually introduced himself." So now you owe me, the thought finished silently.

"Technicality." The disinterested shrug was belayed by the unconscious lean toward the center console. He wanted to know where she was going with this. Damned if she knew.

"Well, when you promise to come to dinner tonight, I'll expect no technical substitutions."

Looking entirely prepared to question this fictitious vow, Stephen's ringing phone made its first appearance. He'd turned it off during the game, a rare move that was destined to catch up with them eventually.

"Hey. When did you guys get in?" Clearly it was a member of their team. That Connor's voice hadn't reverted to a professional tone meant it was Frank. "Tonight?" His gaze shifted to her briefly. "I…" Momentarily indecisive, he bit his lip before stating; "I have plans."

And so the package would cross her threshold tonight. And the first layer of packing tape would fall victim to the signer's sheer willpower. But just how many levels of tape would she have to conquer?


	7. Artistic Leftovers

I must thank Darling Syd's as-yet-unreturned updating skill, borrowed some time ago and put to use for this chapter. Gnomy, this one's for you.

* * *

**Signature Required**

Chapter Seven

'Cooking' was a bit of a stretch in defining what Natalie was undertaking in the kitchen. 'Constructing' was a far more succinct label. Grocery shopping hadn't made it onto her schedule in some time and what few items hadn't been unthawable wore a thick, pungent coat of fluffy green. Mold wasn't the sort of topping she was shooting for on this first at-home dinner. Having a demoralizing lack of edible food in the pantries, the chef relied on the remnants of last night's impromptu Chinese order to create a meal that would hopefully defy the unsavory description of 'leftovers.' A midnight craving had her ordering a startling amount of little white buckets, partially from indecisiveness but mostly because of the minimum order requirement for delivery. Never had an untimely overnight hunger become so convenient.

Arranging a strategic assortment of taste choices on her mother's best china, Natalie stepped back to judge the presentation. The cooking shows on public television could be thanked for the lessons on the importance of color variance and texture clashes to the discerning palate. The noodles were fork-swirled to avoid a haphazard appearance, the rice was piled in a tidy circle and the chicken formed a pyramid upon a foundation of broccoli. An impressive dash of garnishes put the finishing touch on the meal and she carried the serving tray out to the living room with an air of one who accomplished something grand with so little.

The man who would not be her boss tonight waited for her by checking out her music collection. A person's choice in music spoke volumes, as shelling out actual money for something should indicate a true preference for the item. This made her Bee Gee's Greatest Hits a tad hard to explain. And of course Stephen was scanning the top shelf and with the discs being organized alphabetically, he'd surely seen it. As well as the torturous Michael Bolton CD her friend had given her. And the Saturday morning cartoon theme song compilation. Until this moment, she hadn't realized how embarrassing her meager stash actually was. But the day would come when she'd reclaim her dignity by scrutinizing his discs.

The shin-accosting coffee table redeemed itself by being put to use. The journals had been cleared and the glass top was wiped to a shine. The nature of the meal inspired her to abort the normal setting of a dining table. The tray occupied the center as she pulled the table away from the couch. The big end pillows were commandeered from their spot and were resettled against the front of the couch, making a comfortable backrest. Connor abandoned his study of her music habits and watched the preparations with interest. Natalie was aware that, bent over the table as she was, there was a feminine display that no man would ignore. The V-necked shirt, with its thin material accenting hollows and curves, gave the illusion of a fuller bosom than she possessed. It wasn't that she believed such devices were needed to get Stephen's attention, but he tended to reign in reactions before they could be read by others. The current outfit, donned once they'd arrived at her home, guaranteed a certain degree of unconcealed notice.

The living room was suitably lamp-lit, candles being avoided for the sake of keeping her inclinations from being so sadly obvious. Overt romantic clues served no one at this point. Two plates of artistically presented food were paired with glasses of mid-priced wine. Sitting demurely on the floor, Natalie gestured for Connor to join her at the reheated banquet. Stephen lowered himself to the floor, one leg tucking under the other as his body angled in her direction. Her work was studied with curiosity.

"It's not so much a meal," she explained, "as an interpretation of a meal."

"Haven't shopped lately?" Impossible to pull one over on someone with such intuition. That grin, the one that had been making more frequent appearances since Tennessee, reemerged. "In that case, the chef _and_ the artist are to be congratulated."

Taking the first bite, Natalie promptly thanked the Chinese as a culture for making her look good. "I interpret it as fast and good."

Naturally, she'd meant the meal but his raised eyebrow caused a rewinding of the statement in her head. Fast and good? Possibly the worst innuendo she could have mistakenly uttered. The blush was quickly washed down with an extended sip of wine, her eyes banned from stealing a glance at her guest. The devious tongue was also barred from further comment until her rebellious brain could form platonic sentences. Not an easy task given the closeness of Stephen's knee to her hip, the air barely squeezing between to separate them.

Refusing to let any tension form, Natalie began to talk about her impressions of the game, Jack's performance and the odd things the sideline parents did whenever a penalty was called on their kid. She detailed all that she'd learned about the rules of the game and even admitted to having been quite bored this morning until he'd arrived. Then came the lapse in tongue control.

"Wonder how Lisa's date is going?" The question had escaped entirely without consent, but once spoken, it couldn't be taken back. While she regretted bringing it up, Natalie wanted his opinion enough to cut off any apology.

Stephen studied the rug for a moment, seeming to consider his reply. "Jack obviously doesn't like him, so for his sake, I hope it's going badly."

"You think she's paying again?"

That brought his gaze back to her. "Knowing Lisa, if she suspects she's getting stuck with another check, she'll politely excuse herself and just never come back to the table."

The scene played out in her head, inserting herself in that position. "I don't think I'd have the nerve."

Stephen looked both surprised and doubtful, taking a bite of chicken before confirming it. "I don't think you'd have waited until the second date to have that argument. You don't strike me as the type to play games."

That statement was dutifully filed under the 'compliment' file in her brain. A sip of wine encouraged her to forge ahead. "Is that a backhanded complaint that I fight too much with you, oh King of Arguments?"

His laugh was worth even an affirmative answer. "No, but you don't let me get away with much."

"Someone has to keep you in line, or poor Miles would be deaf by now." The young doctor endured more than his fair share of verbal correction from Stephen and she'd often assured him it was because Connor believed in his potential.

"When did you sign up for that job?" Misreading her expression as confused, Stephen clarified, "Keeping me in line?"

Suddenly afraid of a serious turn in the discussion, a lightness was sought. "I saw the posting on the bulletin board. Figured my fighting skills could use some fine-tuning."

Watching as his gaze moved to something on a far bookcase, Natalie squinted to discern what had caught his attention. The medical who-dun-it novels, alphabetical by author, carried the worn bindings of multiple readings. The knickknacks interspersed irregularly on the shelves had neither value nor interest to anyone but herself. Just when she was about to inquire, Stephen tilted his head.

"Is that your ex?"

The target of his line of sight became clear. A photograph. The frame of etched wood housed the old picture, which was a bit too small to fill up the space allotted. It pressed awkwardly against the glass and a glare marred the 3 subjects from view. Connor must have originally seen it while looking at her CD shelf.

Clearing her throat, the story was given in an artificially neutral tone. "The woman in the middle was my grandmother. That was taken on the last truly good day of her life, her 75th birthday. She, uh, seemed to wake up with terminal cancer the next day and it went downhill so fast, we didn't even have a chance to say goodbye." She kept her newly moist eyes averted, but felt the need to defend the photo's prominence. "I kept it because I liked the reminder that she had no reason to worry that day. Chris just happened to be in the shot. I couldn't cut him out of it without taking half her arm off. But every time I see it, I want to try."

Stephen's arm slid across her shoulder in an effort to prevent her impending tears, which only ensured them. But the flow was light and quick, stifled by the emotional support she could easily sense from him. Her hand rose to clasp over his, still resting on her shoulder as though it belonged.

When her voice was sure not to come out in a shaky mess, the attempt to elaborate was made. "She didn't like Chris. He used that as an excuse to skip her funeral. Then he told me he'd spent the day waiting in the apartment for me, but I found racetrack receipts that said otherwise."

Giving her shoulder a squeeze, Stephen leaned back against the cushions and sighed. "So, our spousal choices merit investigation. But we can claim to be older and wiser now."

Laughing at the unquestionable statement, she felt entirely wiser by the infinite improvement of male company. And she tested the water by voicing it.

"I think we're proving that claim tonight." The shy tone was offset by a bold resumption of eye contact.

But Stephen couldn't maintain the intimate gaze. Dropping his eyes, he shook his head. "I'm not sure what we're proving."

Striving forward was the only acceptable direction at this stage. "That, in being older and wiser, we're careful about who we give our precious spare time to. And our trust."

"And our leftovers?" He gestured to the now cold remnants of dinner.

"Especially our leftovers." Breaking the moment with her answer, Natalie rose and grabbed the plates. "I'll be right back."

Depositing the dishes in the sink without rinsing, her hands held the edge of the counter as she tried to evaluate where to go from here. Speaking on personal subjects still brought a measure of discomfort. The effort to open up was a struggle for him, despite the step he'd made today to include her in a non-working event. What lay between them was less a wall than a shell; thin but sturdy, solid yet breakable. The cracks were starting to show, but to pick away to form larger holes would mean taking a chance. The problem was that once done, it could not be reversed. While she was certain she wasn't attributing to him more caring than he actually had, the potential for rejection still lingered. So talented at all phases of battle, the man was also singularly skilled at retreat. Whatever ground she staked as hers tonight, Stephen could easily reclaim tomorrow. And put extra acreage between them. How many steps backwards would he drag them if things were rushed?

Still, how many more opportunities would be handed to her to make progress? The package was here and waiting to be released from the bindings of tape and flaps and packing paper. He's in that box somewhere. And suddenly the right angle to take became clear. Give Chris credit, she thought. For the first time in his dishonest life, he was about to become useful.

* * *

**If you enjoyed this in any way, don't be shy. Drop a line to let the author know. It will make the work of writing the next part (a biggy) all the more productive.**


	8. Acid Reflux

**Signature Required**

Chapter Eight

Ex-husbands are like acid reflux disease. They return.

The medical condition was due to transient or permanent changes in the barrier between the esophagus and the stomach. Chris caused permanent change in the barrier between her heart and mind. Natalie knew his ability to disrupt her life was limited by jail bars. But the memory of his brand of disorder still woke her in a panic at times, as though she were still legally tethered to the criminal. Dreams of him disappearing to run a scam or being carted off in cuffs popped up to remind her that the past was just a minute ago. Chaos, wearing his face, had ripped the fabric of her carefully planned world. Every man since was held up to his low standard, signs of inconstancy and possible flakiness were sought and found, occasionally where none may have existed.

Peeking out of the kitchen doorway, Natalie watched the blond haired man reexamine the photo on the bookshelf. There were no criminal leanings in this one. No likelihood of physically disappearing. Still, that double thick, reinforced steel wall effectively hid him when he opted to remove himself from the normal course of emotional attachments. Yet he was still here, seeming to be held hostage by a piece of paper.

Perhaps he was considering the grandmother whose death brought Natalie to tears. Maybe he was deciding what character traits could be discerned from Chris's plastered smile. Possibly he was critiquing her lack of fashion sense, evidenced by the limp hair and pleated A-line, polyester blend knee length skirt. Despite the instinctual cringe at the visual revelation of her fashion blindness, it was fortuitous that the picture had Stephen's attention. It created an opening for her to make a point, the one Chris and the dishes helped her devise.

Moments ago the tall shoes almost came off, toes complaining about the lack of personal space. Plus the jagged heels, still factory rough from disuse, tended to catch on the carpet. However, erasing his height advantage was key to the coming push. Natalie dredged up every Chris-related emotion, which promptly bubbled like heartburn of the brain, and prepared to make the ex's ghostly return more constructive than his life.

"It's funny," she began upon entering the room. "I told everyone I'd learned my lesson with Chris. I said I'd speak up for myself. I wouldn't be bowled over or stepped on. And I wouldn't be afraid of telling it like it is just to spare myself someone else's bad reaction."

Tearing his eyes from the frame, Stephen's frown declared that he knew he was in for something from which he couldn't easily escape. A momentary lapse in her brave front brought him a step closer and she was glad that her shoes' extra inches kept him from towering.

"You have something to say and you think I'll react badly." Stephen's summary was issued in a soft yet grainy tone, as one not thrilled with the direction but willing to go along for the ride.

Straightening her posture to get every centimeter out of her spine, the words came out with little inner censoring. "See, I used to keep things from Chris because he didn't like to hear things out. Just took the first sentence, misjudged it and stomped the life out of it. So it was easier to live under the pretense of contentment than push for something different. Even when I knew it would makes things better for both of us. And I guess my silence made him figure everything was okay, so he didn't get too concerned with the signs otherwise. Kind of blasted right through them, actually."

At some point, Natalie's stiff posture had sagged under the weight of the moment and she lost much of the eye-level parity she'd been resolute to establish. Perhaps it was for the best. The increasingly downward line of Stephen's mouth did little for her courage, and she had to drag up her prior determination to deliver the point. He was looking for the personal criticism and she was looking for the words to assume him that none was forthcoming.

"You're so completely different than him, which is why I want to be different than I was then. I want to be able to tell you what I need to without worrying that I've ruined our working relationship. It means too much to me."

It appeared that, to Stephen's mind, the expected blow would not materialize and gratitude wrote itself into the edges of his eyes. Expelling whatever breath he must have been holding, he tilted his head.

"Where are you going with this?" Not quite impatient, the tone said get moving or he'd bolt.

"You said that you didn't know what we were proving tonight. I think," deep fortifying breath, which didn't especially help. "I think I can at least prove that I did, in fact, learn those lessons."

"How were you planning to do that?"

In that moment, something must have shown on her face; a clue that something was about to happen. A groundbreaking that could disturb their foundation. She took in Stephen's hard swallow and wondered what gave her away. Too late now to reconsider the course, she paid strict attention to his breathing, a hitch appearing where none had been all day.

And who was she to waste such a blatant physical response? Her lips were on his without hesitation. Without invitation. But with restraint. And that was no easy task. Keeping it brief and light was like a starving woman voluntarily halting at the first bite. His lips were far softer than she'd expected, what with so many hard words passing them. Still, that ever present point was not yet made. Separating with difficulty, Natalie cast her eyes to the ceiling, prompting his questioning gaze to follow.

"No lightning bolts," she observed, then slid her hands upward along his taunt arms to his shoulders.

Bridging the negligible gap again, her mouth met his, this time allowing the contact to linger before remembering the plan. Parting had been less difficult in theory, plotted safely in the kitchen where his lips were still foreign to hers. Finally, she broke the contact, raising a hand to cup her ear.

"No tornado. So no chance of dropping into Kansas."

There was a ghost of a grin, though it could not be said that Stephen looked sold on this game. While it should have worried her that he hadn't walked away, hadn't spoken against her actions, there was the gift horse and there was the mouth. And dear Lord, what a mouth. Her hand was returned to the previous home on his shoulder, but neither hand was content to stay there. Slipping up behind his head, they were employed in bringing his mouth into striking range. Once more, deeper and longer, did she kiss him, not sure why he was permitting it, other than sharing the same enjoyment she was deriving. The objective of staying detached from the activity had originally been instituted for fear of losing control of this. But, as they were essentially reenacting this morning's daydream, the attempt at disinterest was fleeting. Lips failed to listen to the conservative side of her mind and opened under the pressure of his. Touchdown. His hands on her hips were dizzying, but the introduction of his tongue made her forget there were other body parts. Nearly. The sensation of kissing him emboldened her beyond her initial plan, which was becoming fuzzy in the face of such blissful distraction. But the ploy wasn't done yet; not until someone besides her did the initiating. Stopping was like deliberate suffocation, but it was finally accomplished.

Looking down, Nat shrugged. "No black hole." And now, time to deliver the bomb labeled The Point. "I guess the world doesn't actually implode because we decide to cross a self-imposed line."

The flash of consideration barely took a second off the clock, but seemed like four eternities. "What line?"

A touch of devilment overtook Stephen's carefully crafted stone expression. This time, he met her halfway and she no longer felt like a thief, stealing something that didn't belong to her. He did this willingly. And he did it well. Thus the first and possibly second layer of box-sealing tape was shredded beyond recognition and discarded as his strong hands tugged her closer. Tall shoes, granting her even access to him, were blessed with the same tongue that currently wrapped itself around his. Breathing was impossible, so she relied on him to find enough oxygen for them both. There may have been a moan but neither could likely identify from whom it originated.

But there was no mistaking whose phone was ringing.

And Stephen's sigh said it was not a rescue from an unwelcome activity, but an unwanted interference. Stepping back, he answered a bit gruffly, causing an unabashed smirk to break out on her face. Not willing to let him reverse what they'd done, Natalie acknowledged their need to separate, but did so slowly. Her hands slid down along the muscles of his arms dramatically, blunt nails traced the path of her departing seduction.

And he had to ask the caller to repeat themselves.

Feminine pride had been a stranger for too long but it was well worth the wait to re-experience it. Apparently, his ability to breathe wasn't made any easier with unfused mouths. The package was not only untaped but close to unhinged.

A sizeable amount of mental yelling went on inside her head at the longwinded caller, but once the onesided talk was over, it was clear from the clouding of his features that all good news had ended with the kiss.


	9. Black Cloud

Diabolicael, so glad you climbed aboard this slow moving train. Enjoy!

TVChick and MILover? Where have you gone? You are missed.

**Signature Required**

Chapter Nine

Natural disasters can often be predicted. Indicators are read by experts, who plot the trajectory and gauge the expected impact. Sophisticated technology is employed with the aim of preventing loss of life. But even the savviest specialist can be blind to the signs. In retrospect, Natalie should consider herself an expert. Based on the compiled information at hand, she should have predicted the interruption and countered it with her own biological equipment. Hope had blinded her and now she was left to assess possible damages. Her inner instincts should have been employed, at least to save herself.

In essence, she should have known.

Tornadoes, born from thunderstorms, must be Director Ewing's spirit element because the woman certainly knew how to rain on Nat's parade. 'Black Cloud Kate' had touched down in what should have been an expected trajectory, aimed at destroying their night's future activities. And Connor had been forced to depart, heeding the call of a new case. He'd have to familiarize himself with the case's particulars rather than become acquainted with her… particulars. Her only consolation was that Stephen hadn't gone willingly.

"That black hole you mentioned?" He'd quipped, looking down as if it waited beneath them. "Apparently it takes you to NIH."

"Kate?" It had been a mock, not a question. There'd been no doubt. "The tornado strikes."

Stephen's sigh had been a terminal pronouncement on the evening. "Too bad we can't drop a house on her."

The conversation was recalled in the relative safety of the team's plane. Rumbling through the lower atmosphere, the engines complained about the new retrofits tampering with its perfection. The shuttering of the passenger hold was hardly unusual, but her seat seemed to jump on its bolted-down legs more than normal. Perhaps it was just her perception, as her heart was similarly lurching. The morning's meeting had been routine; here's the case, symptoms and suspicions. Diagnosis to follow. Not a moment deviated from the established norm. The patients, they were informed, presented a range of flu-like symptoms, joint swelling and an unproductive cough, a list not dissimilar from many of their easier cases. For this Natalie was grateful. Easy meant quick.

Boarding the plane, talking in rotating pairs and Miles flinching at every noise were all regularly schedules parts of any new case. Natalie alone strayed from the path. Eva noticed, discreetly asking if it was 'that time.' The young woman was herself experiencing the reward of an empty womb with the help of every drug available. A tampon was yanked from the bowels of a designer handbag and waved about as a sympathetic offering, causing a passing Frank to groan. Slapping it away, Natalie explained that she was just having an 'off' day and needed only a few rays of blessed California sunshine. That much had not been promised by their team leader, as recycled air was usually the only oxygen they typically had access to during a case. Tennessee had been a fluke.

Praying to a childhood God that last night didn't fall under that heading, Natalie pressed her body deeper into the seat cushions and let the air current vibrations ease the muscle tension. Looking back on the morning, there were no distinguishable signs of change for the team to notice. Perhaps that had been by design. Why let the group in on something they hadn't sorted out yet? The appropriate medical discussions had taken place around the conference table and they had all departed the building together. She'd made a point of entering the plane first, subconsciously telling Connor that he'd have to seek her out. Which he didn't. And that led to a host of negative thoughts that understandably looked like PMS to others.

Upon landing, two nondescript, black SUV's were parked on the tarmac. As was Natalie's custom, she'd hopped into the passenger seat of the first truck and waited for Connor to join her. Relief that he did was erased when Miles opened the back door, sliding in with no awareness of the daggers flying from her eyes. Damn. To ensure her blood pressure was suitably raised, the young man chatted purposely the entire way to the hospital. Pointless observations of the location and the hopes for a few hours in the surf made her wonder if Miles had been directed to this truck by someone else. A spy or a chaperone, she couldn't be sure. But perhaps suspicions had been aroused by the Tennessee trip and maybe, just maybe, they were in trouble.

The hospital was massive, mistakable for a high-rise with an aim toward touching the clouds. Clearly the architectural stylings of a man struggling with adequacy issues. Most medical facilities enjoyed a profile somewhat lower to the ground and any fear of heights would make this an unsuitable place to work. They were greeted by the highest ranking administrator, who was no less than 70 years old. The woman wore her panic between every liver spot and took them on a direct path to the 5 patients.

"They all just, well, dropped. Within an hour of each other," the administrator explained. "Good kitchen workers. Well, except the one on the end. Teenager, you know. But that's no reason to get hit with this," her hand made a circular gesture, "thing."

Dr. Millengraff looked a bit ill herself, in Natalie's opinion, though not with the symptoms the team was here to diagnose. The old woman kept her gaze on her employees as she spoke, as a grandmother watching over sick grandchildren.

"How did it start?" Connor used a gentler tone with her than he would with most bureaucrats. He must have felt the maternal vibe as well.

"This morning I spoke with the shift manager. He said that yesterday they all complained of various stomach issues." She put a hand on the glass window. "He thought they were just trying to get out of their duties. Any spreadable illness would keep them from working with the food. A few of them tend to be," Dr. Millengraff looked at Connor apologetically. "Well, a little overdramatic. And they're known to socialize outside of the hospital."

Natalie stepped forward. "It's an understandable assumption. They're all so young."

Doing her best to straighten an old spine, the administrator resumed a more professional tone. "After they collapsed, there was doubt they weren't faking it. We thought at first is was dysentery but there was no swelling of the intestines. But when the headaches and joint pain started..." A sad shake of her head dislodged a lock of gray hair from her hastily bound bun. "Tests were conducted which ruled out Hepatitis C and Tuberculosis."

"We'll rerun those tests," Connor directed the order to Natalie, but Dr. Millengraff's immediate frown showed her offense.

"I can assure you that our lab is one of the best in the state."

With all the patience of having explained this during every case, Connor turned fully to her. "My pathologist is the best in the country. We never work from someone else's results."

No matter how many times she'd heard that compliment, it never failed to do marvelous things to her insides. And made her work eight times harder to keep him from being proven wrong.

Heading to the lab required an intolerably long elevator ride. What other hospital in existence had so many floors? A smooth journey it may have been, but the music alone was enough to warrant the building's destruction. A light jazz version of 'Girls just wanna have fun?' Holding no hope for the state of the laboratory, Natalie followed the etched wood placards in the direction of her temporary home. Pushing open the swing doors, her eyes blinked rapidly at the sight. The lab was a revolt against the sterile, bland offerings of most facilities, which made it almost appealing aesthetically. A study in heather gray and mauve, the place looked like it had been featured on a makeover show. Wall hangings, colored vertical blinds and iron work furnishings spoke of an unpractical décor that was somehow incredibly pleasing. The workers, at least, seemed to enjoy their surroundings. Working on laptops while sunken into captain's chairs, two men and one woman looked up slowly, three pairs of eyes taking in their visitor's reaction as though it were a departmental hobby.

Natalie lifted a hand to gesture to her open mouthed expression. "You must get this a lot."

The younger of the two men, a tall and shockingly thin fellow, stood and waved an arm about the room. "You mean the 'where's the white walls and stainless steel' look?"

"That's the one," Nat confirmed as approached the man's desk. "I'm Dr. Durant from…"

"N.I.H.," the older gentleman drew out the acronym like one speaks the name of a personal enemy. Hunched over his desk, his posture was reminiscent of a demented, horror movie mortician. "Come to take over our highly decorated space and then leave it a mess."

And the good feeling that came with the pretty walls vanished. "Actually, I'm here to help your co-workers in ICU."

"Lady, kitchen staff are not co-workers. That's like cozying up to the janitor." The man, whose name tag identified as Dr. Martin Felton-Landers, returned his baggy eyes to his screen, thankfully ending the cheerful discourse.

Dr. Samuel Hinson, who looked all of 25 years old, walked around his desk with a hand extended. Natalie accepted the hand, which was rather dainty. The frail man's grip lacked any real strength; not for fear of crushing hers but as though in protection of his own bones.

He introduced himself as Sammy. "Don't mind Marty. He comes from British stock, so there's a deep-rooted class system going on in his brain."

"I see." Natalie eyed the sole woman among these two polar opposites and sympathized with her nervous exterior.

"My parents were proud citizens of the Queen's empire," the 50-odd year old's conceited tone suddenly held a bit of an unnatural accent. The hyphenated last name should have been a clue.

Biting her tongue to halt any snarky reminders about the outcome of the American Revolution, Natalie opted to simply nod. Dr. Hinson, however, had no interest in letting the man win and gave her an exaggerated wink.

"And you, my friend, were proudly born in Pittsburgh." The reminder shut the old man up nicely. She'd have to remember that.

Natalie requested a place to work and Dr. Hinson showed her to a spot near his own but far from Marty. Still, voices carried in this decked out haven and every mumble against big-headed government agencies and their cheeky women was delivered to her ears. Her laptop was up and running and she began the work of rerunning all tests, departing briefly to collect fresh samples. A crossing of paths with her boss was entirely probable and possibly rewarding. It was all in the maneuvering, this quest for answers. Had anything changed and if so, was that transformation of a satisfactory nature? Only after completing her end of the preliminary phase of testing would she have an opportunity to verify. Although if he wasn't yelling, it wasn't clear how she'd locate him in this maze.

**(…….)**

As the day wore on, the creative differences in the hospital's construction grated on her nerves. The lab's swinging doors acted as a prop from an old western; bursting open at random intervals with strangers looking for a fight. The techs were apparently backed up and the shaky progress sent the well-tanned doctors into spectacular huffs. California had a special brand of arrogance, manifest in the specialists that practice here. But they did not have her attention. The second round of test results were in and she was documenting every ebb and flow on a graph to find irregularities and commonalities.

Frank had reported from the kitchen, having swabbed every available surface. He'd focused on the patients' work stations, as they held down separate parts of meal preparation within opposing corners of the backroom. Each baggy was carefully emptied, the swabs snipped at the cottony end to be run through its paces. The hospital, sparing no expense on modern furnishings, hadn't skimped on equipment either. Gleaming machinery waited for her use, though a less than welcoming glare from Marty tried to force guilt into every fingerprint she left behind. Documentation in hand, Natalie gladly abandoned the lab to hunt for far better company.

The daydream would have gone thus: finding Connor in an empty room, there would be a resumption of last night's enterprise. Cell phones would be incinerated and blood would boil. The amenity-rich hospital would have large beds occupying every room. And soundproof walls.

Reality went like this: Once Stephen had been located, Natalie found with him nearly every nurse in the place. At least 2 young women to each patient, with a reserve group waiting in the wings and receiving instructions from her boss. It wasn't unusual to utilize excess staff, on those rare occurrences that they exist, to keep watch over the patients for changes. It was, however, abnormal that it bothered her this much. Just a moment alone to utter the question she'd practiced on the walk over was now unattainable.

Eva, seeing her friend hovering by the door, approached and once again mistook Nat's emotional state as requiring Midol. Joining the two women, Miles held up his clipboard with a sigh.

"They can't get their stories straight. It's like they all lived a different day." He sighed. "So Connor's got these nurses doing simultaneous questioning, hoping maybe they'll either start corroborating each other or at least tell more truth to coworkers."

Remembering Marty's stance on what makes a 'coworker,' Natalie wished them luck and marched to where Stephen had been sequestered by the administrator. Dr. Millengraff was unable to comprehend the strategy, apparently, because she had moved from defending her lab techs to defending her kitchen staff. At least she could be applauded for caring, a rarity with most bureaucrats. Wrenching her way into the conversation, Natalie caught his eye and he took the folder without a word, resuming focus on the administrator while managing not to cut her off. A sign of a decent mood? Or did he just not trust his tongue to speak nicely. Someone pulled on her arm, the hand persistent enough to draw her away from the pair. Turning, she found Frank waiting to address her.

"So what's the deal?"

Busted already? How had the teddy bear discovered her secret so fast? Red colored ever inch of skin, heating her to sauna strength as he eyed her curiously before speaking again.

"With the patients, Nat." Shaking his head, he looked over her shoulder at Connor for a moment, and Natalie watched puzzle pieces unscrambling in his mind. "Wait, what did you think I meant?"

Think, dammit. "The deal with Connor and Dr. Millengraff. It probably looked like I was eavesdropping." Who said chicks can't lie in a crunch?

"Don't usually have to eavesdrop when he gets hassled by the suits. But he's been kinda tolerant of her meddling. Got the grandma thing going, you know?"

The general lowdown on the results was summed up in one word; negative. The hospital's tests were substantiated as accurate and now it was time to move forward, beginning with the results of Powell's kitchen swabs. The machines should have run through their processes by now and she excused herself to return to the relative safety of the lab. And when Marty grunted in abhorrence at her reappearance, she borrowed Connor's temper and let loose a verbal torrent on unfounded arrogance and England's historical faults that surely took ten years off the old man's life span. And it was remarkably satisfying.

But not as satisfying as when Stephen arrived in person to obtain the latest results. The three techs had gone home a half hour ago, leaving her to greet her visitor any way she saw fit. And the ideas all involved those lips.

Only those lips weren't interested.


	10. Mental Whiplash

Sorry for the delay my lovely readers. I surely hope this chapter was worth the patience. Only one more to go.

**Signature Required**

Chapter Ten

Martin Felton-Landers had been blessed with a gift for facial expressions. He called liberally upon his available repertoire when forced to deal with various forms of civilization. This was not uncommon in the human experience, as most people have an inner buffet table from which to select appropriate smiles or frowns to slap on their faces. But Marty had the originality to break from the norm and focus on a solitary expression. It was, in fact, the only expression he owned. But there were fascinating degrees of that one look. His was an inner buffet table serving only salad, a fact slightly redeemed by the eighteen different kinds of lettuce.

The lines around his mouth shifted in depth from cracks to canyons. The coldness in his dead eyes was controlled by an adjustable internal thermostat. The bushy eyebrows bunched into furrows of subtle variance. But any combination of these features still spelled annoyance. The level at which he'd perfected these facial gymnastics suggested lifelong practice, as though 'curmudgeon training' had begun while still in diapers.

If he kept that ghastly expression aimed at Natalie much longer, he'd need diapers again.

Natalie's renegade brain had finally had settled into a few hours of unadulterated work. This time, her mind found the will to focus on solely the task at hand. The microscope bore several new finger smudges from the rushed French fry breakfast and her shoulders had remained in a tense squeeze while she'd peered at the samples. Marty, however, seemed content to shout condemnations within the confines of his own head. But the eyes, graying from a mix of cataracts and quantifiable evil, had followed the progress of her fingers. He was either plotting to remove the sticky digits from the rest of her hand or was just mentally listing all the places she'd defamed. Surely he'd remind the staff, the ones not good enough to be called co-workers, to clean up after the D.C. savage.

Day two of the current case brought the hope of a rapid conclusion. When the patients, as one, began a more violent coughing, the team had considered a rare form of Pertussis. The presence of flu-like symptoms, coupled with vomiting and the increased cough, carried a similarity with whopping cough. Eva checked their employee files for any vaccinations, and found all had taken the shot at different periods in their employment. The vaccine only lasts three months so Connor wasn't sold on this line of reason. None of the ill had been overseas nor had other predispositions to make the diagnosis likely. Still, the disease usually ran its course within 6 weeks, so it would have been slightly more ideal than other current hypotheses.

This discussion, undertaken in the strangely decorated lab, wasn't entirely without interference. Eva was clearly studying the décor, being the non-medical type who just happened to be redecorating her apartment. Powell's eyes kept darting to Marty and Sam, surely digesting the differences in the auras of the two techs. Marty must have eyed him back with hostility because Natalie could have sworn Frank's teddy bear- pleasantness shifted into a grisly bear-snarl. Miles had wisely remained with the patients, eager for word of the talk's outcome. She'd barely seen the young man on this trip, but he was the bearer of French fries earlier. Of course, Miles had nearly dropped the bright cardboard container when the full impact of the mauve/gray color explosion reached his eyes. This lab should come with a surgeon general's warning.

A new set of x-rays had been ordered and signs of pneumonia were visible. With films in hand, Connor started down a different road of theory. He and Natalie had reevaluated the patients, looking for evidence of endocarditis. Discovering the overnight worsening of joint and corneal swelling, they were prepared to declare Psittacosis, a bacterial disease as the official diagnosis. All the other symptoms fit neatly into the scenario and treatment was begun with the administration of Tetracycline. Only the source remained to be discovered.

The prospect of leaving the California warmth did her nerves all manner of good, as they'd been trampled beneath the Elephant's Foot of Uncertainty. Marty helped not a bit. A hint of counterfeit British accent leaked in as the old man expounded on the natural wonders of the area that clearly made California far superior to anything in the East.

"Your…D.C. is full of politicians, isn't it?" Marty asked as though this were her personal fault. "I'm led to believe the only beauty in that town is the Cherry Blossoms. Though I imagine they must wilt in the putrid air there."

"And what's wrong with our air?" Besides the lack of clean ocean breeze and too many BMW's?

He abandoned his microscope to examine her, much like one would study a piece of bread for mold; with disdain and vinyl gloves. "Filled with the stale breath of their lies. Engulfed in an alternate oxygen teeming with talk of taxes and honesty. It's a wonder you've survived with your…virtue intact." His tone suggested he assumed quite the opposite, making her doubted virtue beg for just one sucker punch.

Biting the inside of her cheek for a moment, Natalie looked for a quick way out of this conversation. "I'm sure you're filled with perfection from border to border."

"Naturally. We're a state brimming with inspired sites. Not those cheap tourist traps your side of the country indulges in. Just 30 miles north, you'll find the most astounding seal colony, of which I am a loyal patron..."

The details of his modesty went unheard. While Marty patted himself on the back, Natalie wondered where her jaw had gotten off to. Oh yes, it was sweeping the floor. But surely there was more than one seal colony. Now she just had to find a break in his self-congratulatory speech about the funding he'd single-handedly provided the colony's saintly marine biologist.

"This colony," she began, cringing with each syllable. "Wouldn't happen to be studied by a Dr. Lowe, would it?"

The second jaw dropper came with Marty's slow-bursting smile. Not the snide aristocratic one that evaporated cement. It was as if she'd announced she was related to the Queen. This served as her answer. Yes, _that_ colony. The groan that followed echoed around the tailored walls, coming from the same hollow pit of her stomach where Felton-Landers was making a home. Just the reminder of Karen Lowe put spikes on the bottom of the elephant's foot, stabbing her with the knowledge that Stephen had liked her. Or as Jack would say, 'liked her liked her.' If Connor decided not to return home with the team, there might be a homicide.

And to think, this morning had begun with such promise. Last night's decline into a most unladylike Marty-aimed tirade assured far more angry stares but a bit less talking from the elderly technician. Up til now. And before this moment, it had been considered an even trade. Laptop tucked under her arm, she excused herself from his sanctimonious company and hunted down a rumored private cafeteria.

The relative hush of the twelfth floor eatery gave her brain the freedom needed for contemplation, mostly on the subject of bosses. Dr. Connor was her boss on this trip and sadly, nothing more. Every word he'd spoken in these two days was solidly grounded in business. The safe medical discussions, which used to comprise her steady Connor diet, no longer satisfied but apparently would be all the sustenance she'd receive. However, there were moments which hadn't involved speaking that warranted analysis; gestures and glances that had been faithfully catalogued in her mind to be deciphered later.

From their brief talk last night, Natalie had picked up how the constant hovering and immediate maternal defenses of Dr. Millengraff were slowly fraying Stephen's slim reserve of patience. He'd come to the lab for results, but also a reprieve. This was hardly unusual and was long a matter of pride; in these situations, no one else on the team would do. That his reliance on Nat's composure hadn't been altered by her lips was a welcome sign. That he hadn't taken advantage of the empty room to kiss her senseless had put a damper on said composure. In fact, there seemed no evidence that any prior kissing had ever occurred. Certainly there'd been no sexual desire expressed when he'd snapped at her for breaking a slide, meaning a new sample had to be obtained. Like that never happened to him? And anyway, it was Mr. Perfect's fault for distracting her this way. Natalie had always prided herself on being too professional to let outside matters intrude in her lab work. Not even her divorce had interfered with that stone focus. That her boss had stolen that pride caused a moment of shame that Connor must have sensed because he'd actually apologized for the flare of anger. But it suddenly felt as if there was no signature required because the package had never actually arrived in the first place. Was it possible he'd blinked and he became married again?

First thing this morning she'd ensured that a ridiculously large coffee made its way into Connor's hand and his other hand didn't stay unoccupied long. As they'd left the conference room he'd confiscated, Stephen's palm had melted through the fabric at her back as he'd steered them through the threshold. Such contact didn't last beyond the first turn of the corridor, but the tingling of her skin had lingered well into lunch. Thoughts of that hand elsewhere led to a full body humming that even the bitter tech couldn't silence.

Reaching the case's stage where there was little for a pathologist to do and loathe to depart from the haven of empty tables, Natalie scanned the food offerings and selected her meal. Despite the spare-no-expense wonderment that was the lab, the unmanned cafeteria left a rather sad impression on the hungry. A cardboard burger, birthed from a malfunctioning vending machine, served as the only hope for stifling her stomach's rumbling. Advertised as a cheeseburger, there was not only a lack of square dairy but of actual beef. Only when she investigated the package did she realize this was a vegan version of the American classic. Tofu was for quitters.

A bag of pretzels later, Natalie settled for a discreet game of solitaire. Virtual cards displaying little frogs on their backsides were considered her lucky deck. Waiting for samples or updates was her lot in life, a course in patience and time-killing necessary for all pathologists. Unfortunately, it gave her leisure to think again.

Today's goal had been to initiate a conversation about their previous intimacy, a task made difficult by Connor's apparent inability to be left alone. The few instances of privacy were always shattered by the arrival of any number of people currently filling her personal hit list. The only thing saving the team from her imaginary hit man was the possibility that they weren't at fault; perhaps Stephen was conjuring up the visitors at will. Yet even as the man appeared to have dismissed their incredibly non-platonic, practically-seasoned-lovers kiss as an action done in some alternate universe, there were looks. Glances, snuck only when other occupants were in clear oblivion. Some were ventured in the span of a blink, so fast a police radar gun would have gone off. Others came at the backend of normal, professional eye contact, a lingering on her features beyond what is required by the rules of politeness. The question became, was he trying to relate his feelings in those glances or was he trying to determine how to let her down easy.

The good signs conflicted with the bad and mental whiplash ensued. In some respects, these signs had been there as long as they'd known each other. But the light cast over them by the kiss shadowed Natalie's ability to ignore them. It occurred to her that hiding in the cafeteria accomplished little either way. There were no gleanings to be found among her thoughts and there were reports to begin. Giving up the soothing atmosphere of quiet, Natalie grabbed her laptop and marched to the gallows that was the lab. Finding the fake Brit and his snide, creaky bones replaced by a young, slim and friendly Sam Hinson was like a reprieve from the governor.

Five minutes later, her pen was flowing crisply across the yellow legal pad, making a timeline of her processes in this case. The conclusion would remain blank until word was received that a cause for the Psittacosis had been found. Miles had sent a text message declaring that small improvements had already been noted in their patients. He also mused about the general proximity of the ocean and expressed a longing to put his two surfing lessons to use. While she would normally encourage such ideas, the thought of staying in the same state as Karen Lowe made Natalie spell her own name wrong on her first draft. No, leaving this cursed shore was imperative. Preferably together.

At four in the afternoon, Frank sauntered in to deliver the cause of their troubles.

"Birds," he announced, striving to avoid eye contact with Marty. "Specifically, dead birds."

Though Psittacosis was usually found in more exotic species, it could certainly jump the logic barrier and introduce itself to more common varieties. Natalie was prepared to take any answer that put asphalt under speeding tires in an eastward direction.

"Birds?" The Felton-Landers snort carried a whiff of that fake accent and his ancestors were cursed for procreating. Marty stood, fist pounding lightly at his pile of backlog.

"Haven't I said kitchen staff was useless? Bet they served contaminated birds parts in the soup."

"Only in yours," Frank muttered. "They got into the building while the main doors were being replaced. No one could catch them so they just left the birds to their business."

Marty usurped Natalie's coming gripe about careless hygiene by his grating mock of a laugh. "Told Millengraff they were taking too long and the gaping hole in the lobby would let riffraff in unawares. Proof positive, but nobody listens."

"Anyway," Powell nearly shouted, "the youngest kid is a nature buff, collecting animal bones for display. So he let a few birds decompose in different hiding spots in the kitchen."

"Let me guess. For the bones?" That twelfth floor cafeteria, with its cranky machines, looked like the banquet hall at the Ritz.

"Studying avian anatomy the hard way." Frank headed to the swing doors, his gaze drifting to Marty. "Looks like we can wrap this up and get back to civilization."

"A shame, since California's been so welcoming." Ganging up on the elderly was a ticket to hell, but worth the trip.

Frank paused from his exit, leaning back in to shake his head. "We ain't going right away, you know. Some of us have plans."

Face sagging with the weight of plaster upon it, Natalie strove for nonchalance. "Plans?"

"I'm hitting a Chargers game. Miles will try surfing without drowning. And Eva's on some kind of interior decorating kick that'll max out her credit cards before she leaves. We're not meeting the plane til tomorrow night, unless you're in a hurry?"

Sputtering in the word-forming attempt, she settled for a strangled, "How?"

Fortunately, too much time together helps people hone mind reading skills. He knew what she meant, as his look indicated.

"Kate must have _really_ missed Connor while he was gone. Cuz she's inventing rule-bending ideas to keep him from leaving."

The pathologist's panicked face failed to keep Powell from leaving. Marty resurrected his snideness in the absence of someone bigger than himself. His approach came fully stocked with noise and smug victory.

"Maybe a culture-enhancing trip is in order. Perhaps to my friend, Dr Lowe's?"

**(…….)**

War was declared on the basis of inciting insanity. An army of one stormed through the labyrinth-style hallways, past the wooden placards and the crisp staff and the ungodly bird-infested kitchen. She'd had it. The better part of the afternoon had been spent berating herself to the point of self-harm for nursing this fantasy like some high school crush. This was not how adults proceeded in sorting out romantic entanglements. In one weekend, she'd been robbed of her concentration and confidence. After all, when you kiss someone who ought not be kissed, the receiver of affection should at least acknowledge it. Or even remember it. And certainly should not plan a rendezvous with a former…whatever she was. There was pride lost in this matter and it was time to reclaim it.

And destiny must have agreed. Fate reconstructed the fabric of the universe to allow Natalie to find him without asking directions. Walking toward her, Stephen was reading from a file while miraculously not running into anything. Must be that psychic ability Powell talks about. The woman barreling down on him was finally noticed just before their paths intersected. Something approaching murderous must have scrawled itself upon her face because in the next breath he stopped, opened a small door and pulled her inside.

The server room hummed around them, the vibrations of the powerful central brain of the building strumming her muscles. Or perhaps it was just her. Because she was being kissed into blissful coma. No tenderly exploring, 'new couple' contact was this. Passion such as hadn't been achieved in three years of marriage commanded all the air in the room. And when she lost that contact, there was a whimper that should have embarrassed her in the utterance. Only it didn't.

Stephen simply gazed down at her, entirely unapologetic. "You looked like you needed that."

Oh beautiful man, she mused through the haze. Have you no idea?

"B-but… did you?" The voice, not quite her own, didn't want to escape her tingling lips.

The grin was enough answer, but Stephen gave her more. "Waiting for that has made this a very long day."

And suddenly it all seemed so silly. Here was a man of conviction, iron-willed and determined beyond what nature intended. Once he made up his mind, changing it was like changing out the sun for a different shade of yellow. Standing in that room, taking what he offered, she knew the package was delivered, signed for and open. Now there remained only a sifting through the protective shipping filler to uncover the prized item that lay within; his heart.


	11. Sustaining Morsels

**Signature Required**

Chapter Eleven

It was still new, this act of leaving together. Established without discussion in the weeks following their California visit, post-case directions now consistently plotted the same course. Today would involve any open eatery that might sate an all-day hunger.

If good fortune was any sort of friend, a deeper hunger might be satisfied later. Even an appetizer would be welcome; those first few morsels had been known to sustain a woman for days.

They'd opted for a slow and altogether unhurried pace, seeking to avoid discomforting mistakes or regrets that would raise the proverbial hammer on their efforts. The attempt to hide this 'settling into domesticity' lasted exactly 6 days before the mantle of secrecy was unceremoniously thrown off. Their coworkers had the dual role of being faithful friends and could be trusted with the fragile package that contained this new relationship. The upper brass, however, were shielded from the truth for the sake of team continuity. Reassignments would be handed out as dutifully as the company news letter. Which wasn't to say that Kate, the bastion of inconvenient insight, didn't appear to harbor suspicions.

There were still a few sensitive issues between them, one of which was waiting in the parking garage. Retelling an embarrassing childhood adventure with frantic hand gesturing, Natalie's freeform rant coaxed a rare careless smile from her future lover. Reaching the upper parking level and tearing her eyes from Stephen, Natalie scanned the line of cars to find his. And her.

The former Mrs. Connor sat cross-legged on the hood, the scene looking like a camera-less photo shoot. The woman employed one hand in primped her tawny curls while the other flecked away a speck of lint from her designer skirt. Hauling oneself uninvited onto a man's car was a blatant criminal infraction. Did she know nothing of the unspoken rules of guys and their toys? Whether Stephen's sigh stemmed from Lisa's presence or her presumptuous position was unclear. Hopefully both. The expected feeling of guilt at enjoying his nearly hostile reaction never materialized. Instead, a giddiness born of long standing envy bubbled from a purely possessive cauldron and Natalie clamped down on her lips to disguise the evidence. Jack had dropped the hint last weekend that his mother had found out about Natalie and was none too pleased. Lisa had clearly remembered Natalie from their brief phone conversation during the drive out of Tennessee and likely assumed they'd been involved at that time. Lisa's own romantic attempts with a string of rotating men had netted no results. Jealousy was natural, Natalie supposed. And in this case welcomed.

While she could say it was nice to put a face to the name, those sentiments were something of a lie. The face, entirely too pretty, evoked pangs of inadequacy that Natalie had sought to banish since her gawky childhood. Unsuccessfully. Still, it would be potentially entertaining to be introduced to the woman. The meeting could center around veiled insults and displays of public affection to mark her territory around their common link. But a chick fight on NIH grounds would hardly be a subtle way to announce their against-policy relationship. This woman could easily have Director Ewing's home number on speed dial and would be only too glad to call Kate personally. Reluctantly giving up the obvious entertainment, Natalie tugged on Stephen's arm to secure his attention.

"I'll stay here, if you want."

Of course he would, as he was all too aware of the logistics involved in maintaining some form of concealment. Still, she knew he'd appreciate the offer. It saved him from asking. The past had been departmentalized in his mind, a protective measure he used to preserve sanity. Lisa, ever rooted in the present because of Jack, was still someone he kept in a secured vault. Natalie would remain present, but hidden, since distance did not equate to deafness. Watching from a sniper-like position behind a support beam, Natalie angled her ear toward the coming conversation. There was no greeting as the woman took a break from the supermodel posing to glower at her ex-husband.

"Do me a favor? Say goodbye to your son."

Stephen almost looked relieved that it was Jack who'd found disfavor. "Why is he only _my_ son when he's in trouble?"

"Because he gets more like _you_ every day. And I'm going. to. kill. him."

"So I heard." His subtle hand gesture was meant to depose her from his vehicle. She declined to notice. "He sent me the world's longest text message explaining his reasons."

"My new carpet, Steve. My God. Can't he leave it at your place?"

Natalie's jaw dropped on the use of Steve. First she shows up unannounced spitting threats of murder from his car hood and then she calls him Steve? Who is this woman? And why does she look so…limber?

"As you're so quick to remind me, I'm never home." Stephen was fighting valiantly to avoid an argument and therefore sweetened his tone. Based on her sigh, it must have worked. If Lisa came here for a quarrel, she'd leave empty-handed.

"He just had to save it." Lisa's expression shifted into a slightly more civilized frown. "Forget baseball camp. Now he wants to be a vet. Practicing on my brand new, non-stain proof carpet." And then the manicured finger-pointing made its appearance, blessedly with little bite. "And I blame you."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?"

Contriteness, an emotion Natalie surmised was normally spared from Lisa's repertoire, found a home on her face. The shoulders lowered as the too appealing voice softened. "I didn't mean it like that."

"I know." Leaning against the car, Stephen looked to his ex with something close to fondness. However grudgingly, Natalie had to admit they made a stunning couple. "We did promise him."

"He was two."

"But he remembers. He gets the long memory from his mother."

The demeanor and tones smoothly shifted into something that sounded like a pair still on speaking terms. It didn't hurt that Lisa slid gracefully from the hood, landing like a dancer on one high-heeled foot. She then pivoted toward her ex-husband with a suggestive calendar-girl lean over the grill.

"You know what he's getting from his father? Dog training."

A long lingering and painfully staged glance capped her sentence as Lisa strode away. The erotic hip sway was a nice touch. Connor had said that Lisa was a jeans kind of girl, yet the body wrapped in a designer outfit was sensual enough to boil asphalt. Natalie took her own hips, devoid of runway model swing, straight to the car, the smirk plastered uncontrollably to her face.

"What did you ever see in her?"

The answer was slow in coming, perhaps because his attention remained on the departing hips. Nat's grin vaporized into rampant displeasure as a hard elbow to his side encouraged a return to present company.

"Well…" He gestured after the woman as if to declare the sway was reason enough.

Exasperated sigh came complete with eye roll and Natalie took a pointed step back. "You are such a_ man_."

Whatever venom she'd injected into that pronouncement bounced right off him. Stephen straightened to full height, borrowing her previous smirk. "You'd prefer something else?"

"No," she conceded but raised a dangerously unmanicured finger. "But you'd better be half that distracted when _I_ walk away."

Turning on her heel, Natalie stalked down the center lane to her own car, employing every clichéd movement she'd seen on those silly modeling shows. One hand splayed on her hip while the other dangled at her side, sweeping a grand arc through the air. One foot was placed directly in front of the other, almost crossing to make the sway more prominent. Posture straight and mechanical, face set in a pout. Though he was behind her, she kept that pout in place to stay in character. And he'd best be enthralled by the performance or she'd run him the hell over. What court wouldn't take pity on her plight?

So focused was Natalie on the presentation that when she arrived at her car, the strong arms spinning her to a halt against the fiberglass almost caused a scream of panic. Not that the sound would have been audible, as his mouth over hers sealed all protest from escaping. Something was unleashed in it that left no doubt they were moving forward at warp speed. Perhaps tonight was the time to drop all pretense of 'slow.'

Oxygen rushed into Natalie's lungs by the bucketful when he released her. A few gulps of air and words followed.

"Thought we agreed to discretion at work?" Not that she was complaining.

He considered this for a moment, then shrugged. "Must have been distracted."

Good answer. And every argument, every harsh word, every veiled criticism he'd ever uttered in her vicinity was forgiven. A quick resumption of tasty activities was interrupted by the sound of the elevator, but for once they didn't jump apart. His hand on her back steered them back to his car.

Granting a quick nod to the passing intern, Natalie slowed her step when the question hit her. "Does she usually call you Steve?"

He laughed, a sound angels weep over. "Only when she wants to irritate me. Which you shouldn't do."

Intriguing challenge. Stopping all forward motion, she turned to face him, eyebrow raised. "And if I do?"

Moving around her, Stephen continued to the car, throwing over his shoulder, "Then I'll be going home. Alone."

An engraved invitation couldn't have been clearer. Certainly the Age of the Morsel has been concluded, moving right on to whole bites. Rushing with renewed vigor past him, she claimed her place in the passenger seat, letting it serve as her RSVP. Stephen started the car but her hand on his face kept him from shifting into drive. A light kiss was deposited on his cheek as her hand trailed along his jaw, down his neck, over his shoulder and finally arrived at the package's treasured item. Covering his heart, Natalie whispered,

"Mine."

And that claim, staked through the dogged landmines of Amethyst, demonic radio, ceiling tiles, midget planes, leftovers, bird corpses and exes, was worth the exhausting effort. Because having secured the rights to sign for the package, she'd been able to bring it inside, dislodge all of the tape and dismantle the flaps. Once they were both comfortable with that progress, Natalie discovered that she didn't need to root out and extract the contents of it. She could simply climb inside the box to join him where his heart lived. With the protective filler removed, there was plenty of room for both of them.

Not that space for two was required for long as what began in a boxcar diner was continued well into the cloudless night. On the invisible line of an unspoken contract delivered between lonely souls, two finally became one.

* * *

**Thus concludes Zaedah's little tale. True thanks to all who gave each chapter a chance, especially those who so kindly reviewed. Those little morsels of goodness encouraged me to see this story through.**


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